Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness
by Hardcore Heathen
Summary: The Wizarding World has been kept a secret from Harry for eleven years. Some secrets are better left unexplored - they have a nasty tendency to kill those who look too closely. After all, to be a wizard is to walk with death - though Harry will press on into the mysteries of magic. Anything is better than Privet Drive. AU, Type Moon crossover. Not a romance.
1. Prologue

**Author's Notes:** In the interest of honesty, I'll clarify that the story is primarily Harry Potter and that the crossover elements are almost entirely mechanical in nature (Thaumaturgy, Phantasmal Species, etc) and not character or location based. "Type Moon" would be a more accurate crossover setting, but it's not an available category.

If you've got any questions, leave a review! I read them all and respond to every question.

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Prologue**

Harry Potter's first memory was from when he was not quite three years old, at a birthday party a month before the strange things started happening.

Banners had been hung from the ceiling with care, and it seemed as if all the world's toys were definitely there. The guests, with cigar smoke wreathing their heads, talking so loudly their faces turned red. The party was the picture of good cheer, and more guests and more presents continued to appear.

Of course, none of these things were for Harry.

That went almost without saying. It was, after all, his cousin Dudley Dursley's 3rd birthday, and Harry's Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had spared no expense to show their little boy how much they loved him. (The word "little" being used loosely here, as Dudley was always a rather _large_ child.)

Harry was last in line for cake, but there was more than enough for the guests, and Aunt Petunia couldn't refuse him in front of all of her husband's business associates. Her face puckered with distaste when she handed him the smallest possible slice, but Harry had eyes only for his piece.

He wandered away from the adults with his paper plate and plastic fork, looking for a quiet place to enjoy his treat. Stopping in the hallway near the bathroom, he slowly raised the for towards his mouth, giving a pleased sniff of the cake as he did so. Harry had never had chocolate before, but knew that it was the sovereign deity of all children and deserved proper respect before being stuffed into one's face.

Dudley chose that moment to burst out of the bathroom, bowling Harry over in the process. The fork and plate, containing the tiniest slivers of chocolate joy, went soaring out of his hands and landed face-down on the floor.

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked down at the ruined cake, his expression one of uncomprehending sorrow. Before he could come to terms with his loss and go through all of the proper stages of grief, Aunt Petunia materialized behind him. Her bony hand gripped his shoulder like a vise, and she whirled him about, yanking him from his shock.

Her expression had not improved from the moment she handed him his meager piece. "Well boy, you made a mess. Hurry and clean it up. I should have known better."

The not-quite-three-year-old boy nodded, knowing from experience not to argue when he was told to clean something. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."

The rest of the party's festive mood was somewhat wasted on Harry, but it was still overall a good day. He'd gotten to help put up decorations, which was a big improvement from cleaning or being stuck in his cupboard of a room all day. Then there had been a lot of strange people, and some people from school, and nobody had been mean to him.

As he snuggled into his bed, curling into a ball to avoid most of the bad springs, he realized something: _his_ birthday was in like, a month! Let's see, his birthday was the 31st of July. That meant there were 31 days, plus the seven remaining from this month, or was it eight? Wait, did June have 30 days or 31?

Harry fell asleep pondering the exact day of his birthday, but returned to the issue shortly after waking. After several minutes of counting with his fingers, like the teacher had shown him, and with his toes, like he had been told not to do, he realized that his birthday would be on a Sunday! How awesome was that? Maybe they would have a cool party for him, too?

He asked Aunt Petunia about it over breakfast.

She looked at him as if he'd asked about Martian invaders in German, like it were a completely foreign concept that she lacked the capacity to comprehend in any fashion. Before she could completely recover, her husband explained things.

"Boy," Vernon growled from behind his newspaper. "We have parties on special occasions. Family birthdays and the like. You are not special, and we will not have a party. Pass the jam."

"But - " Harry responded.

He was interrupted by the snapping sound of Vernon harshly folding the paper down, letting the obese man bore his beady glare into Harry's eyes. "Boy, don't ask questions, just do what you're told."

"But why?" Harry wailed, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

"I said, _no questions_," Vernon grunted back, enunciating each word. "Now _pass_ the _jam_ or you can go back to your cupboard without breakfast."

Harry bolted from the table, yelling about the unfairness of it all, and received nothing but an empty belly for his troubles.

Thirty-seven days later (June having 30 days, as Harry had correctly recalled), Harry awoke to the sound of his uncle roaring something too loudly to be understood and beating his meaty fist against the door to the cupboard underneath the stairs, where Harry slept. Harry fumbled the latch open.

The door immediately opened, and Harry was greeted with blinding light and Uncle Vernon's tight grip around his shirt's collar. After a moment to fully awaken, Harry managed to make out what his uncle was saying.

"-IS THE MEANING OF THIS, BOY! I TOLD YOU, **NO PARTY!**"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Harry protested.

"I'm talking about _that!_" Vernon screamed, pointing towards the living room.

Harry's eyes flickered towards the living room, and were immediately arrested by the wonderful sight.

Ribbons and banners had been hung from the ceiling. Balloons festooned the halls cheerfully. But center stage had been given to an enormous chocolate cake, with the words, "_Happy Birthday Harry!_" spelled out in green icing, with three candles blazing on the cake. Harry's mouth formed a silent "O" of surprise and delight.

Vernon took in Harry's surprise, and his purple face paled. "B-back to your cupboard, boy," he sputtered.

"But, but cake!" Harry answered.

"To the cupboard! And don't come out for breakfast!" Vernon barked, shoving Harry back inside the cupboard. "I don't like this _weirdness,_" he muttered to himself.

Harry heard him through the cupboard door, and spent the next few hours of his birthday listening as balloons were popped, decorations taken down, and his stomach rumbled in discontent.

He sat in the corner of the cupboard, then hugged his knees close to his chin, rocking back and forth and trying not to let the Dursleys hear him cry.

It might draw their attention, and he'd already learned that the Dursleys' attention only brought bad things.

===Page Break===

By the time he was six (and therefore old enough to be wise to the ways of the world), Harry had had an entire year of primary school to determine that he loved and hated primary school.

On the good side of things, he got to be away from his aunt and uncle for most of the day. They also usually didn't bother him when he had "homework," because they hated having to go to "parent" - teacher conferences. On the bad side of things, he was stuck in close proximity to his cousin Dudley for most of the day. Dudley did not like him, and Dudley was for some reason popular, which meant that nobody else liked Harry very much either.

His "birthday present" of a rather battered pair of glasses (which the school had insisted on) had done nothing to boost his popularity. Being made fun of because of his glasses was somehow different than being made fun of for his height, and was infinitely more humiliating.

Which made it all the more surprising when Chelsea Galford, the most popular girl in his year, walked up to him and asked what he was doing after school. Harry wasn't interested in girls, not in that way like the people on the telly, but they were mysterious and fascinating creatures nonetheless.

He blinked in surprise. "Um. Homework, probably?" It was not the smoothest of answers, and he realized that it wouldn't do much to help with his "nerd" image.

"Want to hang out before you head home?" she asked, expression bright and cheerful. It was not an expression Harry was used to having directed at him.

"Really?" Harry asked, genuinely confused, but strangely elated.

"Nope! Just kidding, four-eyes." She giggled and bounced back towards her friends, who made no effort to conceal their amusement.

The hopeful expression on his face died a quick death and he slumped a bit, blinking quickly to hold back the wetness at the corners of his eyes. Should have known better.

Three more girls asked to "hang out" with him that day, and by the time school ended he had no fonder wish than to be swallowed up by the earth, that he might never have to see or hear his classmates again.

===Page Break===

By his 10th birthday, Harry had turned being unobtrusive into a high art form. He got up hours before the Dursleys in order to get as many of the chores done as possible. If Aunt Petunia couldn't immediately think of anything she needed him for, he could usually hide out in his cupboard until lunch. On particularly lucky days, she wouldn't remember him until dinner.

On unlucky days, she would continually remember his presence, and he would spend hours weeding the lawn, washing windows, or doing laundry by hand. Unlucky days weren't so common - he was good at keeping his head down and avoiding attention. Occasionally something weird would happen, something completely inexplicable - and he would be blamed and punished.

But aside from things completely beyond his control, he felt he'd managed to limit the misery of living with the Dursleys. It just required a careful eye for anything that could be considered unusual, and the instant willingness to hide it.

He was out on the front porch at 5 o'clock in the morning, oiling a hinge that he'd heard Aunt Petunia complaining about the previous day, when he saw an enormous gray owl soaring down the street, just beneath the level of the lampposts. He paused in his task, staring at the majestic bird of prey.

It swerved towards him and dove.

Harry let out an undignified squeak and threw his hands up in front of him, reflexively shielding his face and eyes.

After a full minute of waiting, he opened his eyes, which he hadn't remembered squeezing shut, and peeked out from behind his hands. The owl had landed on the porch, and was staring at him with its head cocked, as if asking him what in the hell he thought he was doing. Harry was viscerally aware of how sharp the bird's talons and beak looked. It looked like a Great Grey Owl, Harry thought, pulling the name from a half-remembered school project on birds of prey. He'd gotten stuck with the Brown Falcon, and was desperately wishing he'd paid more attention to that one girl's presentation on the owl that was now standing on his porch.

Did they eat children? It looked large enough to carry him off into the pre-dawn darkness.

The boy and the bird locked eyes for a moment.

"Hoot?" the owl hooted, twisting its head completely upside down.

"Um. Shoo?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Hoot!" the owl responded, clacking its beak.

"Seriously now, scat, you," Harry said. The Dursleys reacted very poorly to anything weird, and this was Weird with an audible capital letter.

The owl blinked, clacked its beak again, and bobbed its head towards the ground.

Harry looked down, and noticed an envelope. It looked thick, and in the poor lighting of the distant street light it looked as if it was made of old, yellowish parchment. The address had been handwritten onto the envelope, and even in the faint illumination, Harry could make out his own name.

"A letter...for me?" he said.

The owl bobbed its head twice.

Harry blinked. "You brought this for me?"

The enormous bird repeated the gesture.

"Um. Thanks?"

The owl bowed, somehow, and then launched itself into the air without making a sound. Harry took a step forward after it, but before he could make it off the porch it had vanished into the darkness.

Well. That was...unusual, to put it mildly. After another moment of hesitation, he reached down and picked up the letter. He carried it under the street light so that he could read it better. The address, written vivid, emerald-green ink, read:  
_  
Mr H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey_

There was no return address, but flipping the letter over revealed a large, purple wax seal bearing a strange coat of arms: a badger, a snake, a lion, and an eagle, all surrounding a golden _**H**_.

A chill went down his spine. This was the kind of _Weird_ that got him into trouble. And Aunt Petunia would be getting up in the next few minutes to start preparing breakfast. He should throw the letter away before she or her husband found out about it.

He walked over to the neighbor's dumpster (the Dursleys occasionally checked their own) and held the letter out over the dumpster. All he had to do was let go, and he would never get into trouble because of a crazy owl.

Still, there was a childish part of him that wanted to keep the mysterious letter. A childish part that, being eleven, he was more than entitled to. It was like something out of the fairy tales in the school library, the ones the Dursleys dismissed as "silly" and "worthless." Harry never argued the point, seeing as arguing brought down attention, and avoiding attention was his highest priority in life.

But there'd always been a part of him that felt that the fairy tales and kids' stories were right, on some level. They had a simple and fair view of the world, which he felt was how things should be. The hero overcame bad people, and then things were great for everybody who wasn't a bad person.

The Dursleys were bad people, but Harry was no hero.

His fingers tightened on the letter, and he looked down into the dumpster. Heroes weren't real.

He stuffed the letter inside his shirt with trembling hands, then spun around and hurried back towards his cupboard. If he hid the letter before Aunt Petunia woke up, they would probably never find out.

Heroes and storybook endings weren't real, but that didn't stop kids from wishing, deep down, that they were. Even, and especially, Harry Potter.

He developed a sudden and intense hatred of that very, very stupid deep-seated part of himself. He knew it was going to get him in trouble.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Sorry this took so long to write - writing Harry in this fragile mental state is not easy for me, and I only have luck with it when the right mood (a bad one) strikes. Unfortunately for the fic, my life's been going well of late. And I've been getting distracted by amazing things, like Worm, and rereading Shinji and WH40k, and...you know how it goes. So, to spur my writing, I'm going to commit to a biweekly update, every other Saturday.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter.

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Chapter One**

Harry planned to spend the rest of the day hurrying through chores and avoiding eye contact with the Dursleys. This was his _normal_ strategy, but today there was something different - he actually _did_ have something to hide. Something...magical. The thought made his stomach twist with fear, and he had to wipe his sweaty palms off on his second-hand jeans.

There was no way it was real. It had to be some sort of prank, or an elaborate chain letter. Still, Harry had read the letter a half dozen times before emerging from the cupboard. The letter felt like something that would be delivered to somebody _Important_ in the grand scheme of things - somebody destined for storybook greatness, like Merlin.

Merlin, the wizard. A wizard like Harry, according to the letter.

Harry knew he wasn't that person - he was _Nobody Important_ to anybody, much less the wider world. The Dursleys took great care to remind him of that regularly. He'd used to argue with them - used to disagree - but had learned to keep those thoughts to himself long ago. These days, he didn't even have the thoughts all that often. The only thing vaguely interesting about him was the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, which Aunt Petunia insisted he cover with his bangs anyway.

Still, the thought that _somebody_ thought he was more than nothing brought a warm feeling to his chest. After all, even if the letter were a fake, somebody had taken the time and effort to study _him_ for the details. The letter had been clearly addressed to the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry didn't recall telling anyone where he slept.

The letter in question was stuffed up inside a hole in the bottom of his mattress in said cupboard-under-the-stairs. The Dursleys never went into his cupboard and avoided speaking to him as much as possible, so there was absolutely, positively no way the Dursleys could know about it. None.

"You!" Aunt Petunia said, voice accusing.

Harry turned to face her, and saw that her expression was harsh and angry. His mouth dried and the warm feeling in his chest turned to a painful tightness. How did she know already?

"There's some sort of bird crap all over the porch!" she said, ignoring his dumbstruck expression to continue berating him. "I almost slipped and fell in it when I went to get the mail, which is _your_ job, you worthless layabout."

"But I got the mail already," Harry answered reflexively, finally finding his voice. "I put it on top of the telly."

"Don't talk back to me," Petunia shot back, ignoring the way Harry flinched. "Now get outside and clean that filth off before your uncle hurts himself on his way to work."

Harry bowed his head and mumbled something that sounded like agreement before finding the mop and bucket and bustling back towards the porch.

Once outside, he took a moment to rest his forehead against the handle of the mop and take a deep breath. His heart was still beating against his ribs, and his knees felt weak, like he couldn't hold himself up any longer. He used the mop as a brace to wait it out until his heart slowed and his breath steadied.

Everything was okay. This was how Aunt Petunia always acted. She'd have been worse if she knew.

'_She doesn't know about the letter,'_ he told himself. '_She _doesn't _know.'_

He inhaled, and held the breath.

There was no way she knew about the letter. If she did, she would have taken it away, because it was important to him.

He exhaled, feeling his chest and shoulders relax as the breath left his body.

Harry knew he couldn't _really_ exhale the fear out of his body, but pretending helped. At least now he was calm enough to continue with the cleaning.

He dipped the mop into the bucket, then strained most of the water out of the mop head and back into the bucket with the ease of long practice. If he didn't, then he'd just be slopping water everywhere, and he would have to spend even more time drying it.

The bird (owl?) droppings cleaned up quick enough, but Harry kept on. The gentle sounds of water slopping in the bucket and the mop sliding over the brick of the porch absorbed him as the sun began to peek over the horizon. He continued for another few minutes, letting himself become absorbed in the task.

But he'd never been any good at ignoring problems, not for long. And he would definitely have a problem if he didn't get inside and start working on breakfast soon.

He stowed the cleaning supplies back in their proper place (his cupboard), and paused there in thought. He could try and rush a shower before beginning breakfast, but it would cut things close. He could skip the shower and begin cooking immediately...but then risk being berated for his poor hygiene.

He heard Aunt Petunia's voice shriek out from the kitchen. "Boy!" she snapped. "The eggs won't cook themselves!"

Well, there went that dilemma. "I'm starting now, Aunt Petunia," he called back, hurrying towards the kitchen. Breakfast would be eggs, sausage links, and bacon, like always. Uncle Vernon was a strong believer in a normal daily routine, and Harry knew better than to tempt fate by deviating from that routine. Routine, ordinary events let the Dursleys carry on with their lives and ignore Harry's presence. Unusual events provoked interest and suspicion, which inevitably fell on him.

He'd just finished with the last of the eggs when he heard the sound of wood straining under a great weight behind him - Uncle Vernon must have just sat down at the kitchen table. The rustling sound of the newspaper being opened confirmed it. That gave Harry about three minutes to set the table while his uncle finished reading the front page.

He scooped the eggs onto the plates - two big portions for his uncle and cousin, with a smaller one for his aunt, and carried the plates to the table one at a time. He had plenty of time to set the table, and a mistake at this point would be bad. He finished just as Uncle Vernon looked up from the paper, acknowledging Harry with a glance and a grunt. Harry looked down, avoiding eye contact. Aunt Petunia peeked in from the living room and called out to Dudley that breakfast was ready.

Harry hurried back to the kitchen counter as he heard Dudley thundering down the stairs. His cousin had a habit of "accidentally" bowling Harry over when the opportunity presented itself.

Harry ate some buttered toast and a few of the extra sausage links between trips to the cupboards to fetch various and sundry items the Dursleys wanted for their breakfasts - ketchup, pepper, sauerkraut (an unusual request from Dudley, who predictably despised it, leading to Harry cooking up another batch of sausages). Nobody attempted to engage him in a conversation beyond demanding things, so in Harry's opinion breakfast was a smashing success.

It was not to last.

As soon as Harry finished putting away the dishes, Uncle Vernon barked, "Boy!"

"Yes Uncle Vernon?" Harry responded, eyes directed at the floor.

"We need to discuss your...school," Vernon said from the table, putting noticeable distaste into the word.

Harry blinked in surprise and looked up at his uncle. His...school? What would make Uncle Vernon think about Harry's school? His grades were mediocre - enough to not get into trouble with the teachers, and enough to not make Dudley look too bad by comparison. The only interesting school-related thing...that had happened recently...was...the letter, he realized, thoughts freezing to a halt. Panic began to set in, tightening around his throat.

How did he know? Uncle Vernon would have had to deviate from his daily routine to find out, and nothing upset Harry's uncle more than deviations from the routine. Harry had no idea what Uncle Vernon would do - but his imagination had no trouble conjuring a series of horrible events.

"You're going to be at Stonewall High this Fall," Uncle Vernon continued, oblivious to Harry's anxiety. "It's a public school, and they don't tolerate nonsense from their students. Your Aunt has generously offered to dye some of Dudley's old things gray for your uniform." He paused here, beady eyes peeking out from beneath the thick fat of his face to give Harry a meaningful glare.

Harry managed to work out, "Thank you, Aunt Petunia," around the slowly easing bite of his fear.

Uncle Vernon nodded, though Harry's eyes were directed back towards the floor and he didn't see it. "Make sure you know how long it takes to walk to the bus stop in the morning - I don't want to be called in to hear about any truancy. I'll be driving Dudley to school at Smeltings in the mornings, and that leaves no time to be carting you about. Understood?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"Good. Off with you then," Uncle Vernon said gruffly, face already buried in the newspaper again.

He bolted out the back door. Normally he'd be called on for gardening or cleaning at this point, but Aunt Petunia was going to be spending the day with some of her more gossipy friends shopping in town, and she didn't trust him to handle tools without supervision. Uncle Vernon would leave for work soon enough, which meant it would just be him and Dudley left at the house.

Harry thought about reading the letter again while his aunt and uncle were gone, but...Dudley would still be here. In theory, Dudley was going to hang out with his friend Piers Polkiss at Piers's house until dinner - Dudley wasn't supposed to have guests over while his parents were out. In practice, Dudley would mooch lunch off of Piers's parents, and then both of them would come back and play video games in Dudley's room.

Technically Harry still hadn't taken a shower either, but Aunt Petunia would insist he get one after spending the day outside anyway. She was sort of a clean freak when it came to him, like she thought he was perpetually dirty or something. _Dudley_ probably needed constant bathing more than Harry - his cousin was always sweating, what with all that blubber.

Not that Harry would ever _hint_ that he'd so much as had the thought, and even now it made him feel vaguely nervous. He looked around him, making sure that he was alone. The feeling lingered in the pit of his stomach.

He hurried outside before one of the Dursleys could materialize. The park would be open today, and he could climb up a tree and be left alone there. The kids at the park wouldn't know him well enough to be mean to him, but if he messed around on the swings then there would be other kids running around him and yelling. He'd also have to worry more about drawing the attention of their parents, who might notice that Harry was there alone, and that hadn't gone well at _all_ the last time it had happened.

Uncle Vernon had not been amused when the police had called him at work.

Then there was the fact that he was getting a bit old to hang out at the park. He'd have to find a new place soon enough.

He rushed to the park, but he couldn't run fast enough to leave his worries behind.

==========Page Break==========

Several hours later, Harry found himself trying to ignore how ridiculous he must look to the neighbors. They were accustomed to all manner of "ridiculous" behavior from him - Aunt Petunia had made sure of it. At least they recognized him well enough to not call the police while he snuck into the Dursleys' house.

He crouched on the porch, thinking through his entry. He was small enough that he couldn't be seen through any of the front windows, pressed up to the door as he was. By his sense of time, it was half past five. Aunt Petunia would be in the kitchen, preparing dinner - a meal that required the occasional bit of variety, and that he was not trusted with. Today was a Monday, which meant shepherd's pie - probably with pudding. Vernon and Dudley liked their pudding.

Wait, today was Monday, the 24th of July. That meant…

'_My birthday is in a week,'_ Harry realized. He wasn't sure how to feel about that - you only turned eleven once, after all - but he'd forgotten about it entirely.

It would pass unremarked by the Dursley's, like the ten before it, but he didn't care. He'd even, sort of, gotten an early present. It was, at the very least, the first thing that he'd owned that had been made with him clearly in mind. There weren't any other Harry Potters living in the cupboard under the stairs that _he_ knew of - and the space was quite small, so he rather thought he'd have noticed if there were.

He heard the clatter of plates from the kitchen and shook his head, clearing his thoughts for the moment. That would be Aunt Petunia, which meant she wouldn't be in a position to see him open the door. Harry began to slowly twist the knob open (it creaked if you moved it too quickly) when he heard a flutter of wings, and the light of the setting sun behind him vanished.

Harry felt something hit him in the back of the neck. He yelped in surprise and collapsed to the ground, instinctively curling into a ball, arms held defensively in front of his face, knees tucked up to his stomach.

After a few seconds of silence, Harry peeked out from between his forearms. He thought he saw a glimpse of some large bird flying off over Ms. Figg's house, but when he blinked it was gone. More importantly, at his feet…

A large, rectangular envelope made of yellowed parchment, with an address in familiar, handwritten, emerald green ink. Harry blinked, slowly, staring at it. Then he reached out with trembling hands and snatched it. He clutched the letter to his chest, ignoring the way the paper crackled as it bent.

He lay there for a full minute, letter clutched to his chest, trying to work out what exactly had just happened.

Then he realized, '_I'm on the front porch with a letter delivered by another owl. If the Dursleys find out -'_

He rose to his feet tentatively, then put his ear to the door. Silence. Good; the Dursleys hadn't heard his moment of panic. He eased the door open inch by inch before poking his head through the door. The hall was empty.

He ducked inside, shutting the door as quietly as he could manage. He made it to the door to his cupboard as quietly as possible, and managed to make it inside without being detected.

The cupboard itself was nothing special, but Harry felt better once inside it. The closeness of the walls, the low ceiling and the familiar scent of sawdust and cobwebs - it was very much a space that most people would want to avoid.

And Harry deeply loved places that people would avoid. Solitude was much better than having to deal with people. Especially whenever something...strange...had happened.

He looked down at the letter. It looked the same, like it had been photocopied - except the ink was too thick for a copy, like it had been written with one of those fancy fountain pens that Uncle Vernon sometimes got as gifts from clients. With great care, he eased open the letter, trying to be quiet. The walls of the cupboard were very thin.

The letter was the same, word for word, including today's date. Same heading, same acceptance letter, same list of school supplies - where exactly was he supposed to purchase spellbooks, anyway - and the same prohibition against first years possessing broomsticks or performing Thaumaturgy.

Harry shivered as he put the letter back in the envelope. Who sent two letters to someone on the same day? It was like they'd expected a response within twelve hours...and had noticed when he hadn't given one.

He sat in his cupboard thinking about that for long, quiet hours.

At eleven, once the Dursleys were asleep, Harry emerged from the cupboard and crept into the kitchen. He'd thought about bringing one of the letters with him, to read in the dim illumination provided by the streetlight through the window, but it was too risky. He made a quick cheese sandwich, with some pickles for flavor, and scarfed it down.

He cleaned the plate as quietly as he could before heading back for his cupboard.

Lying on his bed, it felt like the two letters hidden beneath the mattress were huge rocks, putting uncomfortable lumps in it. Why were there _two_ letters? What if there was a third?

As it turned out, worry about a third letter was unnecessary. Harry should have been worrying about the _thirty-seven_ letters that found their way into the house over the next week. Only three had bothered to come through the regular morning post.

On Wednesday, seven letters had been stuffed through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. Harry had had to fake horrific diarrhea to get the Dursleys to abandon the area long enough for him to sneak the letters into his cupboard.

Thursday had been fairly normal - one, quickly hidden letter stuck in with the rest of the morning post - and Harry had started to relax. Surely it was expensive to mail that many letters, with that much parchment, especially considering how they were all handwritten.

Apparently, the letters weren't too expensive to make six of them into paper airplanes, which drifted in through the open windows shortly after lunch - one of them landing right behind the telly that Aunt Petunia was watching soaps on. Harry's silent prayer that she not notice had been answered, and he'd retrieved the letter later that night.

Saturday saw one letter folded up and hidden beneath each of the two dozen eggs delivered by the milkman, who appeared completely oblivious. Harry would have been more impressed by this particular trick (the space the letters had been folded into was rather tiny, given the size of the letters) if he hadn't been frantically tossing the folded-up letters into the cupboard. Thankfully Aunt Petunia didn't notice the delay, and the rest of the day was letter-free.

Harry held faint hope for reprieve on Sunday. After all, there was no post on Sunday.

Yeah, like that'd stop "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

He'd considered writing back to the school, but how was he supposed to do that? "We await your owl" wasn't exactly the clearest instruction he'd ever gotten. Even if some of the letters were delivered by owls, he didn't exactly have a giant bird of prey handy to send off with the post. And he could just imagine how well trying to send off a letter with the simple address of "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," would go. The postman would return it to the front door with a laugh...straight to the Dursleys.

Sunday morning, as had become his habit, he woke early and sat by the mail slot in the front door to await the post. Twenty minutes later, the mail came through the slot. Harry tilted the slot open and peered out, wondering exactly what sort of mailman delivered the post at 6:15 in the morning on a Sunday.

The street was empty.

Harry shivered.

He looked down at the mail - and sure enough, there was another letter addressed to him. Only...this one was different. It was smaller, and less weighty. Harry retreated to his cupboard, where he could read the letter more safely.

The heading was the same - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, list of awards Harry had never heard of...but the actual text was much shorter.

_Dear Mr. Potter,  
It has come to our attention that you have received, but not responded to, your acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We understand that this is an important decision, and one of our teachers will stop by to discuss your educational opportunities tomorrow, July 31, at 11 o'clock sharp.  
Yours sincerely,_

_**Minerva McGonagall  
**__  
Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress_

Harry dropped the letter and fell back onto his bed, doing his best to ignore the way the letter-stuffed bed crackled. He closed his eyes and groaned, mashing the heels of his hands into his forehead in frustration. For once, the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead wasn't enough to distract him. This was...bad. The Dursleys would find out for sure.

Unless...unless he waited outside? And dealt with whoever it was before they got to the house. Yes, that would be the way to do it.

"Boy! I don't hear breakfast being made!"

"On it, Aunt Petunia!" he called back.

But first, he had to get through another day with the Dursleys. Sundays weren't so bad - Uncle Vernon and Dudley went to church after breakfast, and would stay out doing "guy things" until returning for dinner in the evening. Aunt Petunia would go to Mass around the same time, and spend the next several hours out with friends.

Harry spent the free time rereading the letter and carefully planning out what to do tomorrow. Aunt Petunia would stick to her usual routine and make lunch at eleven. Dudley had talked about some action movie he wanted to watch that came on at ten in the morning for some reason. None of Dudley's friends would be over - Piers Polkiss was sick with something, and he wasn't all that close with any of the others. Uncle Vernon would be at work.

He could do this.

The Dursleys returned later that evening. Aunt Petunia, as usual, was in a bad mood. Harry wondered why she spent so much of her free time going out places with her friends (who Harry had never met and secretly doubted the existence of) if it always upset her. Uncle Vernon and Dudley, by contrast, were in a great mood - and had, as expected, brought home pizza so that Aunt Petunia wouldn't have to cook. He could hear the faint sounds of voices, the ebb and flow of conversation as Aunt Petunia cheered up by watching her family eat food she hadn't had to cook. It happened every week.

After they'd gone to bed, Harry snagged a slice of leftover pizza from the fridge and a doughnut from the pantry, washing it down with a glass of Dudley's soda. It was a bit too sweet for Harry's taste, but certainly better than water.

He went back to bed, firm in his plan to keep the Dursleys from finding out (and freaking out) about the letters.

Monday morning started off completely normal. He made breakfast, and Uncle Vernon headed off to work, the day's paper clutched underneath his pudgy arm. Dudley immediately headed for the living room and set the tellie to the channel for his movie, which wasn't due to start for an hour.

Harry even had enough time to watch some of the movie from the kitchen. It was some American production about robbers taking over a skyscraper in Los Angeles. After about forty-five minutes it was really starting to pick up - the cops had showed up, and the main character guy trapped in with the robbers was starting to get into gunfights.

But Harry needed to go and await the "school official," so he headed for the door.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia called from the downstairs bathroom. "Come here!"

Harry winced. Couldn't exactly pretend he hadn't heard her, not when Dudley could see him. He obediently trotted over to the bathroom, where an unholy stench awaited him.

Aunt Petunia was stirring some sort of...concoction...in the bathtub with a measured, practiced air, like she did this all the time. Harry had no idea how the reek of it had been contained to this one room. He stood on tiptoes to get a better view. It looked like those videos of horrifically polluted ocean waters that sometimes showed up in the nature documentaries Aunt Petunia liked to watch.

"What is _that_?" Harry asked, lifting up his arm and covering his mouth with his sleeve.

His aunt turned to scowl at him, and Harry noticed that she was wearing a surgical mask. "It's your school uniform. I'm dying some of Dudley's old things; it should look the same as everyone else's when I'm done." Her voice was a bit muffled by the mask, but Harry could still tell that she had no confidence in that statement.

Neither did he.

She shoved the broom handle she'd been using to stir the mix into his hands. "Now, I've got to run some errands. Keep stirring this for another hour or the color won't be even and you'll look like a zebra. When you're done, make some sandwiches for Dudley." She pulled off her surgical mask and dropped it in the sink before leaving the bathroom. "And if you mess up that batchI won't dye another!" she called out.

He took the broom and started stirring mechanically. He was supposed to be waiting at the door. Maybe, if Aunt Petunia left quickly enough, he could still pull this off. Dudley certainly wouldn't get off the couch to get the door, even if his movie was at a commercial break. This was actually a _good_ thing. Dudley wouldn't bother to question why Harry was outside in the front yard for a few minutes.

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck 11.

The doorbell rang as the 11th note was struck.

Harry leaned the broom handle against the corner of the bathroom, then raced towards the front door, trying to rub away the itching at his eyes on the way.

He heard the door open. Strange, Aunt Petunia was paranoid about always keeping the door locked.

When he rounded the corner, he saw the stuff of nightmares come to life.

A sallow-faced man with lank, greasy black hair that matched his robes stood in the doorway. His expression was pinched, like he'd knowingly bitten into something sour.

And standing in front of the Hogwarts teacher was his aunt.

The man's lip quirked upward in a disdainful sneer. "Good morning, Petunia. I'd say it's been too long, but I think we both know that's not true."


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** Sorry about the delay on the update. Been sick. Thanks to Lambeard for the beta work.

**Disclaimer**: These acknowledgments that I know the fictional setting I'm working in are copyrighted actually don't do anything except prove that I know I'm committing copyright infringement.

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Chapter Two**

"Get out of my house," Aunt Petunia hissed at the man in the door. "My family has nothing to do with _your_ kind, and never will if I have any say in it."

Harry could see the man and narrow his eyes from the other end of the hall. "You didn't know I was coming," he said slowly, as if testing the thought.

"I've said all I have to say to you," Aunt Petunia answered. She moved to slam the door in his face. A small wooden stick appeared in the man's hand as if by magic, and Aunt Petunia froze, the door half-shut.

"That's curious," he began. "Because I know a letter was mailed out stating when I would arrive, and I was told that it had been opened."

"Mum, who's that?"

Harry had honestly forgotten about Dudley for a minute there.

The man in the door turned to Dudley. He did _something_ with his eyes, and commanded, "Forget you saw me and sleep."

The rhythm of the words was...interesting, and strangely compelling. Harry considered sleeping through the rest of this surreal encounter. Maybe when he woke up things would be back to their normal, boring, non-nerve-wracking state of affairs. He heard a thumping noise from the living room, like a rather large cow had toppled over, and then the house was silent but for the tellie. Dudley had appeared to have gone along with that "wake up in a rational world" plan. Maybe Harry should join him?

He blinked and shrugged off the thought.

Wait a minute – had that man just _hypnotized_ Dudley? Harry'd always thought that was just a cartoon gag with pocket watches. And why…why didn't Aunt Petunia look surprised?

The man's gaze drifted from the living room, back to Petunia, and then past her, down the hall towards Harry. Cold black eyes met his, and Harry reflexively ducked his head, shrugging his shoulders as he shrunk in on himself. If wizards were like that, Harry wasn't sure he wanted to go to a school full of them. There was something _disturbing_ in the man's gaze, like he was seeing more to Harry than there was. Then the man looked back to his aunt, and the moment passed.

"I'm not here for _your_ family; I'm here for _hers._ And at the risk of repeating myself, that is something you should have already known."

Harry swallowed. "Um," he said.

The man and Aunt Petunia turned, and all of a sudden the entire attention of the house was on him. Aunt Petunia's face was twisted into a snarl, the wrinkles on her face deepened into foreboding crags. And the other man, the teacher – the longer that gaze was on Harry, the more uncomfortable it made him. He froze, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves – escape so impossible it was unimaginable.

"You did this, didn't you," Petunia said, spitting the words. "You're like _her_; like your Root-tainted freak of a mother. Go on then, get out of my house and go get yourself killed with the rest of – "

"Stupefy."

Harry shut his eyes against the flash of red light. He heard a thud, and slowly cracked his eyes open, one at a time.

Aunt Petunia laid on the floor face-down, unmoving. Was she…? He felt a sort of glee begin to sweep over him – no, nevermind, he could see her chest moving as she breathed. Just unconscious then. The happy feeling die, replaced by shame. He shouldn't wish she was dead just because she wasn't nice.

He looked up at the sound of rustling cloth and saw the man put away the stick – wait, was that a wand? It didn't look like the ones stage magicians used.

"Now then, Mr. Potter," the man said, sounding completely calm. His voice was pitched low, and Harry had to lean in to try and catch the words. "Would you care to explain why _dear_ Petunia did not expect me?"

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Um," he repeated.

Black eyes narrowed. "Speak up, Mr. Potter. I have little enough time without having it further wasted."

"I hid the letters from her," Harry said, forcing the words out with no small effort. When the man's expression didn't change, he blurted out, "She's – she gets mad whenever anything strange happens, and blames me, and the letter was_definitely_ strange, especially because of the wizard stuff, so – "

"That is quite enough," the teacher said, raising a hand to forestall any further explanation. Then he moved it to his forehead, pinching his temples like the conversation was giving him a headache. "You have never heard of Hogwarts, have you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Wizards?"

"Not real ones. And Uncle Vernon always hated anything to do with magic – "

"A simple yes or no will suffice, Mr. Potter."

Harry's shut his mouth with an audible click, pursing his lips together.

"Thaumaturgy?" The question was asked with a bit more focus and interest than the others.

Harry simply shook his head again.

"Practically Muggleborn," the man muttered to himself. He dropped his hands to his sides. "I will explain this once, so listen and be silent. Magic is real. It is taught to wizards and witches at Hogwarts, where I am the Professor of Potions. You are a wizard, son of Lily Evans and James Potter." His expression darkened for a moment before he smoothed out his features with a noticeable effort. "They were killed by a Dark Wizard - a wizard who uses magic for evil - known as the Dark Lord. We do not speak his true name. When he tried to kill you, his spell rebounded and killed him. Wizarding society attributes his demise directly to some undefined quality of yours and regards you as a hero, instead of the far more likely conclusion that Lily cast a defensive Charm. She was a brilliant witch."

Harry blinked. "I'm…a hero? And a wizard?"

"I did not say you were a hero; I said people _think_ you are a hero, and people are foolish," the professor clarified testily. This seemed to be an important point to him. "I also said I would only explain that once, so we shall return to the reason I am here: why did you not respond to the letter?"

Harry took a slow breath. Okay, that made more sense – aside from being a _wizard_, which was pretty awesome, he wasn't special. His mother had been.

"I didn't know how," Harry answered. He winced pre-emptively; the professor did not seem like the type of person who would let ignorance pass him by without comment. After a few seconds with no reply, he looked up to see that the professor had his arms crossed, but his frown had softened.

"I don't suppose you would. I had to tell _her_ how to, after all. I assume you are similarly ignorant as to how you will purchase school supplies and make the journey to Hogwarts?"

Harry hung his head. "I doubt I can get the Dursleys to pay for any of it," he said. "Sorry." He felt the vague shame of poverty - the same shame that came with castoff jeans and ratty shirts, only this time under the intense scrutiny of a judgmental adult. Wouldn't that be just his luck? Invited to learn magic at a school for wizards, but the Dursleys would be too cheap to send him.

The silence that fell lasted a full minute, broken only by the scream of "Yipee kai-ay" from the tellie. Harry peeked back up at the professor.

He had placed both hands over his face, his lank black hair falling over the edges of his fingers. Harry heard the man groan in frustration.

"Um…is something wrong, Mister…professor…sir?"

The professor ran his hands back through his hair in aggravation. "Mr. Potter, you don't remind me of your father at all." He said it in a tone that implied this was some failure on Harry's part to live up to an important expectation.

Which was probably true. His dad had probably been a great wizard, and here Harry didn't know anything about anything.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head. Well, it had at least been interesting. Now the man would probably give up on Harry and just walk off. Aunt Petunia would be furious when she woke up, but the knowledge that magic was real was at least worth something. Right?

"Just…come with me, and we'll sort it out," the professor said.

Harry's head whipped up, mouth agape.

The stern expression was back on the man's face. "Unless you want to stay here, with these _people_," he said. "A magical education is not without its risks, to say nothing of how much study will be required to rectify your current ignorance."

He felt hope blossom in his chest. "I'll, I'll try, sir. Anything is better than here."

The professor sighed again. "My name is Professor Severus Snape. You may refer to me as 'Professor' or 'Professor Snape.' I am not so old as to be called 'sir.'"

Harry nodded. "Yes si - uh, Professor."

Professor Snape held out a hand. "Hurry up then, I haven't got all day to wait, Mr. Potter."

Harry wasn't a little kid; he didn't need to have his hand held just to walk around town, but one look at the professor's expression quelled any thoughts of complaint. He took the offered hand in silence.

He felt a vicious tug, as if he were a fish jerking around on a line, and the colors leeched out of the world. Professor Snape's hand began to spiral out of his, and Harry convulsively tightened his grip. A wave of all-encompassing pressure hit him next – the air was squeezed from his lungs, his eyes felt as if they would pop, and his ears began to ring.

As suddenly as the sensation had come, it stopped, and Harry nearly fell to the ground when the world stopped spinning. The sudden resumption of color and sound hit him like a physical blow, and the only thing that kept him upright was his death-grip on the professor's hand. He felt like he would be sick.

Then he realized what exactly he was seeing – a bustling cobblestone street, cluttered with robed men and women in pointy hats. The buildings leaned this way and that, as if they were halfway through the process of collapsing, and signs and cries assailed him from all directions with offers of bat wings, flying brooms, and solid gold cauldrons.

He peered over his shoulder behind him. Privet Drive was nowhere to be seen.

Harry felt a grin spread across his face.

Perfect.

===Page Break===

Harry didn't have long to stand and gawk at the overwhelming _magic_ of the street. Professor Snape had already begun a purposeful stride down the middle of the street (where were the cars?), parting the crowd through force of presence. Harry hurried after him, jogging to keep up with the tall professor's long strides.

And it was a _crowd_. Now that they'd left the sidewalk, Harry's view of the shops was completely obscured by a thick wall of robed men and women. With the press of bodies close around him, the loud shouts and vibrant colors took on an unnerving, foreign air. This was a magical place, and Harry was well aware that there was nothing magical about _him._ He could _feel_ the judgmental gaze of the crowd on him, hear the edge of critical whispers and see the snide looks out of the corner of his eyes. He quickened his pace until he was barely a half-step behind Professor Snape.

When Professor Snape stopped at the bottom of a set of marble stairs, Harry very nearly slammed into the man, briefly losing his balance as he came to a sudden stop. He windmilled his arms and teetered backwards, but just barely managed to recover his footing as Professor Snape turned around. Harry tried to pretend that nothing and happened and that Professor Snape had definitely not noticed any of it.

"This," the professor began, "Is Gringott's Wizarding Bank. Why it's called a _'Wizarding'_ bank when the wizards handed the bloody thing over to _goblins_ I will never understand." Snape's scowl deepened as he made that comment. "Your father was rather fond of mentioning that he maintained a sizable account here. You will use it to purchase your school supplies. I will furnish you with a copy of the school's required items - "

It began to dawn on Harry that Professor Snape had no intention of actually going _with_ him to get these items. He shot a glance out at the dense bustle of activity all the way down the street - the noise, the densely populated street - and thought about trying to find his way through it by himself. The idea made him physically ill. He could picture himself making that trip, surrounded by intimidating-looking adults bumping into him and not caring. Harry felt a rush of dizziness and swayed on his feet, like he was about to fall-

And very nearly did fall when an enormous hand clapped down on his shoulder and a warm, craggy voice somewhere about ten miles above him boomed down, "Blimey, if it isn't 'Arry Potter! Ta las' time I saw ya, ya was jes' a li'l baby! And t'day of all days; Happy Birthday!"

Harry stumbled forward a step, but recovered gracefully. His grace was less reminiscent of a cat landing on its feet and more reminiscent of a rabbit landing a panic-backflip after hearing a twig snap, but a form of grace nonetheless. He looked up to see the source of the voice - and up, and up, and up. It was like someone had taken a mountain and wrapped it in an earthy brown leather coat before slapping a dark beard thicker than Dudley's stomach on top. Tobacco-stained teeth peeked out between jungle-like entanglements of beard as the giant grinned down at him, eyes crinkled in evident joy.

"Ah...thanks?" Harry said.

"Hagrid. How...good...to see you," Professor Snape drawled. It rather sounded as if he meant the opposite.

Harry turned to look back at Professor Snape - sure enough, the scowl had intensified. How did he keep doing that? Did the professor have a "maximum" scowl setting? Or did he just get more and more scowly with every minute of the day until he hit some sort of infinite scowliness?

The big man - Hagrid - turned his grin towards the professor. The cheerful look dimmed a bit, but Hagrid still looked like a jovial, outdoorsy Santa. A good af'ernoon to you too, Profess'r. I take it ye'r gettin' Harry his school supplies?"

"Indeed," Professor Snape answered through gritted teeth. His gaze flicked over to Harry. "Mr. Potter, meet Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwart's groundskeeper." He carefully enunciated the last word, putting more emphasis on Hagrid's status as a laborer than he had on the giant's name.

Hagrid frowned at the professor, his beetle-black eyes crinkling with irritation. After a second he gave himself a full body shake, like a seal shedding water, and turned back to Harry with a grin. "Aye, thas' me. Do some gen'ral work fer Dumbledore, too - he trusts me wit all sorts of important errands and the like," Hagrid said, puffing up with pride.

Harry's attention was more focused on two people at the foot of the stairs, each pointing at the giant man and then whispering to the other. He squirmed, feeling awkward next to such an attention-grabbing figure.

"Just got done pickin up a special package here at ta' bank." He patted a pocket in his jacket for emphasis.

Snape's scowl - look, you get the idea - and he said, "A shame he can't trust you to be more discrete about it.

Hagrid paused, and the grin faded off his face. For the first time, he turned and faced Professor Snape directly. After a long moment, he said, "Aye." The two continued to stare at each other, and the hair at the back of Harry's neck stood on end. "Ah'm a bit chatty. Ah like talkin' ta friends I've no' seen in years and swappin' stories." The tone of his voice brightened suddenly. "But jes' think! If ev'ryone followed yer advice 'bout discretion and secrets there, Lily's boy here'd be wanderin 'bout Diagon Alley wit his father, 'stead of you."

Professor Snape froze completely, his sallow face gone pale, eyes unfocused.

Hagrid clapped a friendly hand on the professor's shoulder, nearly bowling the man over. The groundskeeper ignored him and turned back to Harry. "I know 's yer birthday, but I don' have yer presen' on me. Sorry bout tha'; did'n think Ah'd see ya. Once ye get ta school, drop by me hut. 's by the lake; ye can't miss it. We ken share a cuppa."

With that, Hagrid strode down the steeps and into the street, the crowd parting around him and leaving a large open space in his wake. Harry peeked over at Professor Snape, who had exchanged his poleaxed scowl for a lip-curling snarl. A man of many expressions, Professor Snape, and none of them pleasant.

Snape caught his gaze and snorted. "We've wasted enough time, Potter. Come along."

Harry followed the angry professor into Gringott's, pausing to read a sign.

_Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay dearly in their turn.  
So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there._

And beneath it:

_Fontius Quo Fidelius_

The Latin intimidated him more than the poem, to be honest. Harry shivered, then hurried after Professor Snape. He didn't look like he had any patience left. Which was unfortunate, because the line to see a bank teller appeared rather long. Harry waited silently behind Professor Snape, avoiding eye contact whenever the professor turned his attention towards Harry.

Finally, after 20 minutes, they reached the front. Harry was happy to discover that the bank windows were appropriately sized for him, rather than an adult - and after seeing his first goblin, Harry understood why. They were short, swarthy creatures with leathery-looking wart-covered skin in various shades of vomit colors, ranging from Pepto Didn't Stay Down Pink to Bad Beef Brown.

Professor Snape took the lead. "We are here for Mr. Potter to establish a line of credit on his vault," he declared.

What followed was the most viciously boring four hours of Harry's life. It was like the goblins had somehow weaponized legalese and extensive paperwork into a sleep-inducing superweapon. Harry struggled to stay awake through the conversation, but only vaguely remembered some of the more shouty bits:

"No, he will not pay interest on an amount he pays off at the end of the month!" Professor Snape snarled. "Do I look like some half-wit who can't tell APR from debit fees?"

Roughly an hour later...

"A physical inspection of the vault is recommended - " the goblin began.

"I will not pay 20 galleons to ride in that deathtrap you swindler - " roared the professor.

Fifteen minutes afterwards...

"Of course the blood test says he's related to Godric Gryffindor! Half the British Isles are related to that deadbeat lecher, both of his parents included! No he will not pay for a 'more extensive test' to see if he's in the direct line and eligible to pay off the man's debts, you crook! I thought the Wizengamot outlawed this scam!"

"We have appealed that ruling."

In a way, it was reassuring. If magical banks were this interested in tricking people out of their money as normal banks, then how different could things be? Uncle Vernon was always complaining about stuff like this.

Somewhere around the discussion of how the cover sheets of his account's TPS reports would be stapled, Harry drifted off to sleep. He was shaken awake an indeterminate time later to sign approximately 752,000 documents. He skimmed the first page of the first thing he was handed before giving it up as a bad job and just signing wherever he was told. Only then did he finally, finally get his money - and it was weird tiny coins and a checkbook. Harry looked at them in confusion. Was that solid gold?

"Um," he began.

"We happen to offer a helpful guide on Magical-Muggle currency comparisons," the goblin interjected. "It also explains checks, loans, and banking terms in simple language."

Harry perked up at that, and the goblin went in for the kill.

"We could even throw in an introductory guide to magical culture; quite handy for newcomers to the Magical World."

"And I suppose it's _only_ fifty galleons?" Professor Snape asked, rolling his eyes.

The goblin glared at Professor Snape with its bulbous eyes narrowed. Harry got the feeling that the professor had angered it. Understandable, considering that the goblin had been subjected to three hours of one-on-one conversation - shouting, really - with the sallow-faced man. The goblin turned its head and spat on the polished marble floor.

The sound echoed throughout the bank floor, far louder than Harry felt it should. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other tellers turn to follow the exchange.

"For Harry Potter, who did more for Gringott's as an infant than most do in a lifetime? For that, as a show of the full measure of our appreciation - and so that I can be done with you - Gringott's will charge not a single Knut. Griphook will bring them out to you; I believe this concludes our business. Good day, _professor._" With that, the goblin slammed shut the glass window to his station hard enough to crack the glass.

The hall erupted with fierce, whispered conversations.

Professor Snape seemed rather taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "Typical goblin behavior," he muttered, sniffing disdainfully. "Come along then, Mr. Potter; we're done here." Apparently yelling at a goblin for hours had improved Professor Snape's mood - he hadn't even sarcastically drawn out the "Mr." in "Mr. Potter."

True to the irate teller goblin's word, they were met at the door by a goblin in a caricature of a Muggle business suit. The goblin gave an unnatural (and somehow disrespectful) bow.

"I am Griphook," the creature said as it rose from the bow. It held out two thin, leather-bound booklets that looked small enough to fit in Harry's pocket. "Master Vengeburn directed me to give you these items, as a physical representation of Gringott's appreciation for your services and patronage."

Harry took the offered items with shaking hands, careful not to touch Griphook's skin. The goblin grinned at his fear, bearing rows of jagged, chipped teeth. Harry flinched back, books in hand.

"Thank you for your visit," Griphook said, monster grin still plastered on his face.

Harry was only too happy to hurry after Professor Snape and towards the exit. Goblins were creepy on a level he didn't fully comprehend and wasn't interested in thinking about. He pushed open the thick double doors of the bank -

And was immediately assaulted by a cacophony of noise and light. A crowd - a _mob_ \- had gathered outside the bank, laying in wait for him. A sea of robes and pointy hats spread out before him, witches and wizards with gnarled fingers clutching quills and notepads. scribbling furiously while shouting at the top of their lungs, with turn-of-the-century flashbulb cameras blinding him all the while.

It was like standing in the middle of a thunderstorm that was screaming his name.

"Mr Potter, is this your first trip to the Alley?"

"Mr Potter, where have you been?"

"Mr Potter, how did you defeat You-Know-Who?"

"Mr Potter, is it true that you've been trained in secret by Gilderoy Lockhart?"

"Mr Potter, what's your favorite Quidditch team?"

"Mr Potter - Mr. Potter - Mr. Potter!"

He could hear Professor Snape trying to talk over the mob, but the man might as well have been trying to hold back a tidal wave with a fishing net. The mob pressed in closer; Harry could feel the hot rush of air from their shouting on his face. His jaw locked in panic.

Then Professor Snape grabbed his arm and the world faded into a grey blur of vertigo and pressure. The sudden snap of color and sound returning dazed him, and he fell to his knees, eyes closed as he tried to keep down his toast. He felt very cold, and Harry wondered distantly why the ground was white.

"Enjoy your fame, Potter?" asked Professor Snape, voice snide and oily with contempt.

It was the thought of oil that did it. The mental image of literal oil spewing out of Snape's mouth was too much.

Harry collapsed to all fours, arms spread wide, and threw up. He vomited in a continuous stream of foul yellow, approximately the same shade as the bank teller's skin. His gut heaved at the thought, and another spatter of bile poured out of his mouth.

He stayed there for another minute, twitching as the last of the dry heaves faded, before collapsing backwards, still shaking weakly. Thankfully the ground had a slight downward slope _away_ from him, so his barf was oozing away instead of onto him. Right then he didn't feel strong enough to move, but at least the nausea was gone, so he had that going for him, which was nice. He looked around as much as he could without moving his head. Why was the ground covered in snow? He wasn't dressed for snow.

"Scourgeo."

The vomit (and its stench) vanished. Harry looked up, meeting Professor Snape's gaze. The professor's expression was unreadable as he stowed his wand in - where _did_ that wand disappear to? One second it had been in Professor Snape's hand, the next, gone.

The professor started to say something, hesitated, and closed his mouth. His jaw shifted uncomfortably, and he looked away from Harry. "You may finish acquiring your supplies here, without further interruptions," Professor Snape finally said. "Hogsmeade village is more...private...than Diagon Alley."

Harry blinked, then looked up. Between his knees, Harry could see a rustic village nestled between gently rolling hills, thatched roofs capped with a light dusting of snow. It looked very rural.

"Where are we?" Harry asked.

Professor Snape snorted. "If that is any indication of your listening prowess, Mr. Potter, I fear for your academic future. This is, as I have already stated, Hogsmeade Village. The castle behind you is Hogwarts, where I will have to endure seven years of your ignorance."

Harry scrabbled to his feet and whirled around. He'd never seen a castle before.

Hogwarts, though distant, loomed over the surrounding countryside. The dark stone stood in bold contrast the grass and granite surrounding it. The thick walls were mounted by imposing guard towers, and the castle proper was adorned with spires jutting high into the sky, their placement seemingly random. It looked safe.

Harry liked that.

"Come on, we haven't got all day to gawk. You'll get used to it soon enough," said Professor Snape.

Harry tore his gaze from the castle and followed after the professor, sneaking periodic peeks over his shoulder at the castle. He was going to learn _magic_ there?

By contrast, Hogsmeade village felt underwhelming. The shops were open, but the streets were empty of foot traffic. The shopkeepers were all _very_ interested once they heard his name, but a glare or comment from Professor Snape was enough to keep them from prying.

An hour later, Harry found himself in possession of robes, shirts, shoes, hats, and books, all of which (excepting a single pair of warm robes more suited to the snow) he'd stuffed into a heavy trunk. He'd had the cauldron, glass vials, scales, and telescope delivered to Hogwarts (what would he do with them at home?) and was now only in need of a wand. Professor Snape had directed him to Ollivanders before leaving for J. Pippin's Potions to pick up an order. Something about getting monkshood instead of wolfsbane and wondering where his aconite was.

Harry looked at Ollivanders with trepidation. It looked fairly inoffensive from the outside - it had the same quaint cottage feel to it as the rest of the village. He mustered up his courage and pushed open the door.

The inside reminded Harry of a shoestore, except interesting. Only magic could make a shoestore interesting, but he couldn't think of a better comparison. The dim shop was filled rows upon rows of shelves, with placards arranging them by wood type, mystical substance, and length. Despite the must and dust, the shop thrummed with hidden potential. With magic.

But perhaps most interesting of all was the man seated at the desk, a fire crackling behind him. He wore a purple crushed velvet jacket with a floral pink button-up shirt. Unkempt dirty-blonde hair peeked out from beneath a brown top hat, which matched his bow tie and business slacks as well as it clashed with everything else. He rose with the assistance of a cane and a wide grin spread across his features. "Welcome, welcome! I can honestly say that I didn't expect to see you today, Mr. Potter."

Harry blinked. How did this man know his name?

"Ah, forgive me, I appear to have forsaken my manners. My name is Wolson Winters. Call me Wolson. Your scar is rather distinctive," he said, walking slowly around the desk while leaning heavily on his cane, wincing slightly with each step. "May I take it you are here for a wand?"

"Um, yeah," Harry said, suddenly nervous.

"A simple affair! I'll go gather a few and we'll go from there." With that, the man dropped his cane, stood up to his full height, and sauntered off into the shelves.

Harry slowly blinked in confusion. He looked down at the cane, then back up at Wolson, who was whistling a jaunty tune while skipping down the aisles, plucking boxes at random.

What?

Then he was too busy to wonder about the strange shopkeep, as wand after wand was thrust into his hands. The occasional jet of sparks shot into the air, but nothing that Wolson considered a "satisfactory fit." With each new wand, Wolson jotted down some X's and O's on a chart that covered the wall behind the desk. Harry wasn't quite sure if it was related to the wand selection or if it was a complicated game of tic-tac-toe. By the sound of it, Wolson was losing.

After an hour, Wolson paused, surrounded by disorganized boxes, and stroked his chin as he looked at the chart. "Of course, the one thing I _don't_ have in stock. I wonder if he's got one in the main office? Well, only one thing for it." He turned, did something to the fire, and stuck his head in it.

Harry shouted in surprise - failure to find a wand was hardly something to kill yourself over - but the colorful shopkeep ignored him and started talking into the flames. Harry cocked his head to the side. Was this shop _designed_ to confuse him? After another minute, Wolson leaned his entire upper body into the fire before emerging a moment later with a wand-box.

"Nine and a half inches of holly wood, with a phoenix feather core. Rather...swishy, to use another man's words." He raised an eyebrow and handed it over without another word.

Harry gripped the wand by the base, and felt warmth flood into his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. From there it exploded outwards, every beat of his heart forcing that thrumming energy throughout his veins. It felt like he'd been electrified - his muscles twitched and burned, but it didn't hurt. He shuddered, his wand hand twitching. The tiny movement resulted in an eruption of blinding-white sparks from the tip of his wand.

Then the burning sensation faded, and Harry stood there, gasping for air. He looked up at Wolson and blushed. "I, um. Didn't mean to - "

Wolson was all smiles. "Never you mind, Mr. Potter. It's always like that the first time. Now, if you'll make your way through this maze of rejects and over to the counter..."

The wand was the single most expensive purchase of the day, but Harry didn't question it for a moment. The feel of it in his palm aside, he had a very clear memory of a flash of red light striking Aunt Petunia. It was a good memory.

Professor Snape had said he would meet Harry at Ollivanders, but he must still be busy at the potion shop. Harry should probably go over that way and meet him.

But there was a pet shop next to Ollivanders with the intriguing name, _Peter's Perfect Pets._ Harry had always liked animals. They'd never said anything to mean to him. And hadn't Professor Snape said something about owls being useful for sending messages?

A quick circuit of the pet shop revealed all manner of interesting creatures - a cat with a dog for a rear end (or was it a dog with a cat for a rear end?), a singing troupe of ferrets, a half dozen owls, and a wider variety of toads than Harry had ever thought possible. It was fun - but nothing really appealed to him. The cages were set up more to display than to encourage petting and playing, and he probably had no business taking care of an animal anyway. Harry left without making a purchase, guiltily looking at his feet and avoiding the shopkeeper's eyes.

In retrospect it wasn't the wisest way to walk out of a shop and into an unfamiliar town, because he almost immediately ran into someone in the street, sending them both to the ground. Harry scrabbled to his feet, dusting snow off of his robes, apologizing furiously. "I'm sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going! Completely my fault, I'm - "

He paused in his apologies, because the person he'd run into was actually an owl almost half as tall as Harry himself. Not that this was a notable achievement - Harry had never been considered above "average" in height - but 70cm was somehow more intimidating on a snow-white bird of prey with a hooked beak and talons that gleamed in the afternoon light.

The owl cocked its head at Harry and slowly blinked each eye, one at a time.

Bits of brass fragments fell from the owl's head and landed on the cobblestone path with a series of faint tings. They looked like fragments of a bird cage.

Harry awkwardly raised a hand to wave at the bird - human-owl interactions were rather new to him - and the owl responded by shoving its head under his hand and rubbing back and forth.

It occurred to Harry that he was petting a strange owl in a wizard town in the middle of Scotland.

Professor Snape found him there 20 minutes later, dazedly scratching at the ridges of his new owl's eyes. Harry heard something that could conceivably be construed as a compliment for his choice of owl, and he merely retreated further into shellshock. Of all the day's weirdness, Professor Snape saying something nice was the weirdest.

The twisting pressure-pop of Professor Snape's teleportation (how did he _do_ that?) brought Harry back to his senses. Back to the porch of Privet Drive Number Four. The street looked smaller, the picket fences and tidy lawns less impressive.

"Mr. Potter," said Professor Snape.

Harry looked up at the professor.

"The term begins in one month, and you are expected to be at King's Cross station, Platform Nine and Three Quarters, at nine o'clock. If you encounter...problems..." Professor Snape said, his eyes darting towards Privet Drive Number Four, "And are unable to arrive on time, send a letter with your owl. She will know where to take it, and things will be taken care of. Last, I recommend you crack open your textbooks and make an effort to catch up. Many of your peers grew up in the Wizarding World, and your ignorance will be...noticeable."

Harry swallowed nervously. Right. Wizard kids, who knew more than he did and would mock him for standing out. Not so different from normal school after all. When Professor Snape continued to stare at him, Harry nodded, consciously avoiding the professor's dead-black eyes.

"Good luck, Mr. Potter. From what I can tell, you will sorely need it," said Professor Snape. He turned in a swish of robes and stepped down off the porch before stopping. Without looking back, he said, "And...Happy Birthday." Then he disappeared with a pop of displaced air.

Harry looked at the empty air for a minute. Then his owl (wait, had the professor said it was a she?) demanded attention, and he had to busy himself with scratching her(?) while lugging his trunk inside the house. The TV was still blaring some sort of movie - it sounded like Robin Hood - but more importantly, _Dudley and Aunt Petunia were still out cold on the floor._

Harry licked his lips nervously, eyes flicking from one to the other.

Clearly there was only one thing to do.

As quietly as he could, he dragged his trunk into the cupboard beneath the stairs and hoped that everything would sort itself out. It had never worked before, but maybe this time?


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes:** As a reminder, the story is written from Harry's 3rd person perspective. Harry is a biased and imperfect narrator.

**Disclaimer:** I'm really keeping these in for formatting at this point. Harry Potter is the exclusive intellectual property of various individuals that do not include myself.

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Chapter Three**

Harry prepared breakfast in silence. Aunt Petunia hadn't spoken a word to him since she'd woken up, and he'd survived an entire month where their only communication was cold fury in her eyes. She'd always held him in a sort of vague contempt, like he was beneath her notice, but after that day he _knew_ that she hated him.

Except it was 7 o'clock, and he needed to be at King's Cross in two hours. He needed to say something, or he would miss his train. Then...then he'd be stuck here, for the rest of his life, with the Dursleys. The thought froze his soul and locked his jaw with fear. He couldn't take another week of Aunt Petunia's silent venom.

But the only sound in the kitchen was the sizzle of sausage cooking on the stove. Harry tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, then took a deep breath. _'I can do this,'_ he lied to himself.

"Boy," said Aunt Petunia, voice flat and cold.

Harry flinched, nearly jerking the pan off the stove entirely. "Y-yes, Aunt Petunia?" he answered.

"You need to be at King's Cross, don't you." It wasn't a question.

He nodded, confused despite his nervousness. How did she know that?

Aunt Petunia's only reply was, "Hmph." Then, after a full minute of silence, Uncle Vernon ignoring the conversation entirely, she continued, "It was the same with my sister, and if it will get you and your kind away from my wo-home, I'm only too happy to wash my hands of you. Vernon!"

Uncle Vernon folded the top half of the paper down, surprise evident on his pudgy face. Aunt Petunia usually spent breakfast gossiping about the neighbors while he listened with half an ear. "Ah, yes dear?"

She looked him in the eyes, unblinking, and used the same tone with him that she had with Harry. "The boy needs to be at King's Cross in an hour. It's for his boarding school for social outcasts. Take him after breakfast."

Uncle Vernon nodded. "Yes dear." His response sounded distant, like he'd agreed to take out the trash instead of doing anything unusual.

Harry shivered, and found his gaze wandering to Aunt Petunia. Their eyes met, and he looked away.

===Page Break===

Harry spent the trip to the train station in dead silence in the back seat of Uncle Vernon's car. Something was wrong, and the feel of it scared him to the bone.

Uncle Vernon had no recollection of his plan to send Harry to Stonewall High - a plan his uncle had presented as a done deal not two days ago. Harry had no love for his uncle - Vernon was a terrifying bully - but the way Aunt Petunia had looked at both of them at the table worried him. Her face had been full of hatred, cold and vast as the void between stars. He knew it would feature heavily in his nightmares.

He was only too happy to be dropped off at the station, his uncle speeding off the moment Harry'd retrieved his trunk. Hedwig, who'd been rather pleased with the name he found in his History of Magic textbook, perched elegantly on top of the trunk. If she had any notion of how unusual her position in the middle of a crowded train station was and how much attention it was drawing, she gave no indication of it. Such matters were beneath her dignity.

The trunk glided along smoothly, and Harry mentally thanked Professor Snape for advising him to ship his bulkier items straight to Hogwarts. He might have need of them over the summer, so he wouldn't be able to do it again, but for his first trip to Hogwarts he wouldn't be weighed down with cauldrons and telescopes.

The weight of his nervousness was not so easily dealt with. Even on a dull Monday morning, King's Cross buzzed with activity. Men and women bundled in coats against the early autumn chill strode to and fro, shouting to be heard over the shouting of everyone else. Scattered here and there were the homeless, wearing shabby clothes and holding even shabbier signs crying out their need. The desperate look in their eyes scared Harry, and he averted his gaze and quickened his pace, feeling a vague sort of guilt as he ignored them.

Once he passed Platform 9, it occurred to Harry that there might have been something lacking in his directions. Namely, that King's Cross (quite sensibly) went from 9 to 10 without bothering to stop for fractions. He looked from Platform 9 to Platform 10, then back to 9. Maybe if he kept doing that, Platform 9 &amp; 3/4 would show up - the logic had never worked when he kept looking through the fridge to see if new food had appeared, but there was a first time for everything?

"Looking for 9 &amp; 3/4?" came a voice from behind him.

Harry whirled around, awkwardly juggling the handle on his trunk. The speaker was a tall, gangly, redheaded teenage boy with a liberal dusting of freckles. He wore bright-blue jeans, a businessman's black peacoat, and mismatched skater gloves. A crimson badge, embossed with a gold lion and an elaborate "P," was pinned to the breast of his peacoat.

He realized it had been several seconds since the question had been asked, and awkwardly cleared his throat. "Um. Ah, yes, I think?"

The boy nodded and gave a perfunctory smile. "Not to worry; that's what I'm here for. Lots of Muggleborns have trouble finding it the first time; come right this way."

Harry wasn't sure what a Muggleborn was, though it didn't sound like a compliment. Still, the teenager had already started off into the crowd and Harry labored to keep up as he dragged his trunk across the station.

"Right then, there it is," said the boy, pointing at a solid concrete barrier.

"Um," Harry answered.

"Magic. Look, watch that lot go through," his guide said briskly, pointing at a blonde boy Harry's age who looked to be accompanied by his mother. Wait, no, that was the boy's father - the long hair had confused Harry for a moment.

The pair walked up to the barrier at a brisk pace, with no signs of hesitation - and between one moment and the next, they were gone. Harry blinked. Where did they go? There was only empty rail on the other side of the barrier.

"The gate's Bounded so that Muggles don't notice you using it. The Express is on the other side; can't miss it."

Harry looked from the barrier back to the teenager skeptically. He'd seen it, but...

"Ah, almost forgot," said the older boy. "I'm Percy Weasley, Gryffindor Prefect." He extended a hand and looked at Harry like those words should mean something.

He awkwardly took the hand and shook. "Harry Potter," he said.

Percy's grip spasmed, and the shake suddenly became more vigorous. Harry saw his eyes dart towards Harry's forehead - towards the lightning-bolt scar.

"Harry Potter? What a great pleasure to meet you!" Percy said, a sudden warmth infusing his voice. "I'm sure we'll see a lot more of each other. After all, Gryffindor is the house of heroes, and who's a bigger hero than you, eh?"

Harry squirmed under the attention, extracting his hand from Percy the Prefect's as soon as he could. "Uh, yeah," he said.

Percy nodded. "Look, if you ever need any help, don't hesitate to ask. I'm always there for a Gryffindor - even if you're not one just yet, Harry."

He smiled weakly. "Sounds great. I, uh, better see about that Platform though." Walking straight into a concrete wall sounded better than this strange enthusiasm.

"And I'd best be getting back to my duties as a Prefect. Can't have Firsties getting lost - and good luck with the Sorting! Though I think we both know where _Harry Potter_ will end up!" Percy said with a wink. Then he walked back into the crowd, presumably in search of more confused young wizards.

Harry watched him go, vaguely disturbed by the whole encounter. Percy had been much _nicer_ than the kids who called him "Dudley's cousin," but it still felt similar. Like he'd been placed in a box without being asked if he liked it.

Shaking off the thought, he looked over to the barrier that, apparently, concealed Platform 9 &amp; 3/4. The solid concrete barrier that looked very much like it would hurt if he ran into it.

He walked towards the platform until he was no more than an arm's length away, then stopped. He couldn't force himself to walk through it, or even just to reach out and - reach out and feel solid concrete and know that none of it was real. That made absolutely no sense, but it seized him like an iron trap. What if this was some sort of elaborate hoax, or he'd gone mad? Didn't that make more sense than _magic_? His breath came quick and shallow at the thought.

He felt a sharp pain in his ear and yelped. He turned, clutching his ear - to see Hedwig, preening her feathers in a studied display of indifference. The bloody bird had bitten him!

The snowy owl paused in its grooming to glare at him reproachfully. He felt his cheeks burn. Even the owl thought he was being an idiot.

He looked up at the barrier one last time, then turned to face the train station. No way was he going to do this if he could see the barrier coming.

Three quick steps backwards -

And he was in a picturesque train station straight out of a Dickens movie. Robed adults hugged and waved to more normally-dressed children, who were busy trying to avoid their parents and board the _Hogwarts Express_. The train looked to be a steam-powered antique, but the crimson and black paint shone like it was still wet, and the burnished bronze spokes of the wheels gleamed even in the nonexistent sunlight of an English September morning.

Harry quietly joined the queue of children waiting to load their things onto the baggage cars. Everyone looked cheerful, with smiles and childish squeals of laughter. He hunched his shoulders and tried to not feel quite so out of place. He didn't have any friends to meet or parents to talk to, and felt acutely aware of how conspicuous his aloneness was.

Bag successfully stowed, Harry took in the station once more. The crowd had thinned - it must be getting close to nine. Harry didn't have the luxury of a wristwatch, and the station didn't have a clock that he could see, but it made sense.

Unfortunately, that meant he had to get on the train. The train full of wizard children he did not know, almost all of whom were older than him and probably all of whom knew more about wizarding than he did. He could picture it now:

Boy A: I think nargles make for excellent snorkacks. What about you, Harry?  
Harry: Um...  
Boy A: Don't you know what those things are?  
Boy B: He must be stupid. Point and laugh!

Or even worse, they'd act like those people in Diagon Alley - or Percy, now that he thought about it.

Boy A: Oh my God it's Harry Potter!  
Boy B: I want an autograph!  
Boy C: Let's all get up close and shake his hand and keep talking to him!

Harry shuddered. Well, the train was rather long, and the majority of the crowd appeared to be adults and family, not students. Maybe there would be an empty car?

===Page Break===

Twenty minutes later the train departed with Harry in an overcrowded compartment full of first-year boys and one girl. Hedwig had abandoned him to stretch her wings, though he caught occasional glimpses of her through the window. There were only two benches, one on either side of the car, and no booths for privacy. He'd managed to snag a corner seat, near the door to the next compartment, but was still acutely aware of how many other people (six!) were inside his personal space. Harry's preferred personal space bubble was approximately the size of his line of sight, so he was doing his best to stay quiet and be ignored.

However, like every other thing Harry had hoped for in his life, it was not to be.

"So does anybody know how long the ride is?" asked a black boy with short, curly hair. The silence continued for a moment.

"My mum said about nine or ten hours to get to the station in Scotland," answered the car's sole female occupant. She had red, shoulder-length hair and puffy cheeks. It kind of looked like she'd just had braces removed.

The black boy grinned. "Well, no sense spending it in silence then. I'm Dean Thomas. Muggleborn, so this is all new to me. That, uh, is the word, right? And what's your name?"

"Susan Bones," she answered. "And it is, but I wouldn't worry. My mother was a Muggleborn and she got used to it very quickly."

Dean nodded, then looked around the car. "What about everyone else? Oh, and, hobbies? I'm a fan of football and Forty K."

From there, the ingrained ritual of going around the room introducing yourself was unstoppable, and Harry watched it with horror akin to a trainwreck. A trainwreck would actually be preferable; then he could maybe avoid this.

An athletic-looking boy with short brown hair spoke up next. "Seamus Finnigan. Muggleborn, sort of? Mum didn't tell Da she was a witch until after she had me. Never had the time for Forty K, but I like football. Shame Hogwarts doesn't have a team."

"What?" Dean said. There was no loud outcry or anger, just a tone of absolute befuddlement at the concept of _No Football Team_.

Seamus shrugged. "Wizards, eh? Anyway, I'm done."

The freckled redhead next to him swallowed a bit of sandwich before mumbling, "Ron Weasley. Witches and wizards as far back as I know. 've got two brothers who've already graduated, three still attending, and a sister who'll get her letter next year." He paused. "Uh, what's football? Or Forty J?"

Dean looked like he'd been punched in the face and handed a spelling test. Confused, offended, and with growing anger. "How can - "

"Wizards," Seamus interrupted. "Me mum told me about it. She's better than most, but they don't really have anything to do with 'Muggle' culture."

"You keep talking about 'wizards' like you aren't one," interrupted a boy with dirty-blond hair. He was also the only one who had already changed into robes. "Ernest Macmillan by the way. And I'm a Pureblood, not that it matters. I like Wizarding chess and toffee."

"Hasn't really sunk in yet, I guess," Seamus said. "Haven't exactly done any magic."

"Neither have we," Ernest answered. "Can't, before you're eleven."

"I'm Justin Finch-Fletchley," the last boy said, breaking into the momentary silence before Dean could ask about why there was no football. "Muggleborn. My name _was_ down for Eton before I got my letter - can't begin to tell you how glad I was to come here instead. Mother was a bit disappointed at first, but Lockhart's books brought her around and she started to realize how useful Magic is." He licked his lips and looked nervous, as if he realized he'd begun to ramble. "I, uh, like to read and play the violin. Didn't bring it with me, though." He looked somewhat crestfallen at that admission.

Dean nodded, momentarily distracted from the sin Hogwarts had done to football. "And what about you?" he asked Harry.

The entire compartment turned to look at him. Harry's mouth went dry, and he reflexively swallowed.

"I'm Harry Potter - " he started, and then hell broke loose.

"What!?" shouted Ron, spewing crumbs of sandwich.

"No way!" said Ernest, a grin spreading across his face.

Susan said nothing, but Harry caught her eyes dart towards his forehead.

"Me mum owes you her life," Seamus said.

There was a moment of silence while Harry tried to take all of that in.

"Who?" Dean and Justin asked at the same time.

Harry rather felt the same way they did. Who was _he_? He was nobody.

"Harry Potter," said Susan, her eyes never leaving his forehead, "Is the Boy Who Lived. Twenty years ago, a powerful Dark Wizard started a war. The Dark Lord terrorized us for years, killing with impunity in the name of blood purity. He killed my entire family except for Aunt Amelia - she's the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he wanted to hurt her. But then one night he attacked the Potters. Killed Harry's parents - but when he tried to kill Harry, his magic turned against him and destroyed him." She turned to look at the two Muggleborns. "It's the most important thing to happen in the Wizarding World since the defeat of Grindelwald."

It was the only the second time Harry had heard the story, and Professor Snape hadn't gone into detail about how Dark a wizard the Dark Lord had been. He guessed that this explained the hero treatment, even if he hadn't actually _done_anything. He looked up to see the rest of the train car staring at him.

"So if your parents were killed by the bad wizard guy, who raised you?" asked Seamus.

"My aunt and uncle," Harry answered reflexively. "They're not - uh, magical."

Dean latched onto this detail. "Wait, so you grew up in the normal world?"

"Are you trying to imply there's something _wrong_ with the Wizarding World?" asked Ernest, sounding offended. Dean ignored him.

"Um, I guess, yeah," Harry answered.

"Do you play football?" Dean asked.

Harry looked down at his short, scrawny frame, then back up to Dean. "Ah...no."

"What about - "

The compartment door slid open, and a boy with slicked-back platinum blonde hair stepped in. He wasn't any taller than Harry, but behind him were two boys that towered over him. The boy's eyes flicked through the compartment.

"I'm looking for Harry Potter," he said. "Would any of you happen to know what car he's in?" The tone was cultured and even, but it sounded arrogant to Harry, like the boy was questioning a servant.

"Why do _you_ want to find Harry Potter?" asked Susan, eyes narrowed slightly. There was a definite edge there, though it looked somewhat silly with her oversized cheeks.

Harry could hear the newcomer's teeth grinding. "Simply to introduce myself."

Susan snorted. "So formal, Draco. Well, if you're making introductions, I guess I can be the host for our compartment. Everyone, this is Draco Malfoy. He's a _Pureblood,_," she said, putting special emphasis on the word, "And his father Lucius is an important political figure who has never been _convicted_ of any wrongdoing." She gestured around the room. "Draco, these are Justin Finch-Fletchley and Dean Thomas. They're both Muggleborn."

Draco gave a pained, tight-lipped smile, and his two companions stirred uncomfortably. "Pleased to meet you," he said unconvincingly.

They nodded back at him, even the exuberant Dean held silent by Susan's obvious low regard for Draco.

"This is Seamus Finnigan; his mother is a witch but his father is a Muggleborn."

"Nice to meet ya," Seamus said, extending hand to shake.

Draco's expression grew more and more stiff, and he shook hands with Seamus mechanically. "Likewise."

"Next to him is Ron Weasley. I believe you're acquainted with the family."

The two nodded at each other with no hint of faked politeness. Harry squirmed in his seat - this just kept getting worse.

"Ernest Macmillan you've already met," she said, "But next to him is Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

Draco interrupted his staring contest with Ron to turn back to Harry. He took a breath and schooled his features before reaching out to Harry. It looked very much like Professor Snape trying to pretend he didn't hate whoever he was talking to.

Harry gingerly shook his hand.

Draco looked around the room, and even Harry could feel the vaguely hostile intent. The blonde squared his shoulders. "I won't keep you, but it was good to meet. I know you're somewhat new to the Wizarding World, and would be glad to help you find the right sort of friends." His eyes flickered towards Justin and Dean before returning to Harry. "Some people will only hold you back."

Then he left, taking his two trolls with him, and Harry shivered. What the hell was that?

"Pureblood _Slytherin_," Susan said into the sudden quiet of the compartment. "The House best known for its Dark Wizards, including the Dark Lord. Draco's father was part of the Dark Lord's inner circle, but he claimed he'd been nothing but a magically-controlled pawn and got off." She turned to look at Justin and Dean. "That's not the sort of thing I'd say in public, mind, but everyone knows."

Harry hadn't known. Justin and Dean hadn't known.

He was beginning to get the feeling that "everyone" only included people who'd been raised in this crazy society - which meant that, misplaced hero status aside, he was still no one. After all, nobody had tried to talk to _him_ \- just to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

===Page Break===

Eight more hours on the train did little to disabuse Harry of that idea, and he'd spent the last hour "changing" into his robes in the bathroom, a task which had taken five minutes.

Now he was in the middle of a crowd of students milling about next to the train in the middle of the night. For once, he didn't feel awkward amongst so many people - there was a bit of comforting anonymity in the robes and pointy hats. But what was he supposed to do now? Nobody else was going for the luggage...

A voice bellowed out into the darkness "Firs' years this way! All firs' years, over here!"

Harry looked up and saw familiar giant casually waving about a lantern the size of a Volvo. A wave of smaller robed figures started heading towards Hagrid, but Harry dawdled as long as he could before falling in at the end of the line.

"Ever'one here?" Hagrid asked. "Right, my name's Hagrid an' I'm the groundskeeper here at Hogwarts. Ye'll hear the rules soon enough, but - " he pointed out towards the treeline at the edge of Hogwarts's grounds. "Thas' the Ferbidd'n Fores'. 's called tha' coz it's Ferbidd'n. Dangerous beasties and the like can't come to Hogwarts coz it's Bounded, but the Fores' ain't. So stay away."

He clapped his hands together with a thunder-like boom and his serious expression lightened. "Now! Got somethin' more fun fer ya. Follow me."

Hagrid led the group down the slope of a hill, and Harry had to place his feet with care. There was not a marked path. At the bottom of the hill Harry saw a small dock with a dozen little wooden rowboats tied down. The water was still and dark, but Harry knew how to swim. Water didn't scare him.

"Alrigh', inta tha' boats! No mor'n four to a boat!"

In the ensuing shuffle Harry somehow ended up at the very front of the line, and in the prow seat of the boat. Moderately proud of knowing that the front end was called the prow, Harry looked about for the oars. There did not appear to be any inside the boat, which complicated matters.

"Grab hol' now!" Hagrid boomed.

Harry snatched for the railing lightning-fast, and not a moment too soon. The boats zipped off without any other warning or visible means of propulsion, and several less agile students ended up taking a tumble. He heard a splash, followed by a cry of, "No, not Trevor!"

Well, hopefully Trevor would be fine, because Harry had no attention to spare for the rest of the flotilla. His eyes were fixed forward. The boats made no noise except for the occasional slap of water against a hull as they glided through the water, and Harry could almost pretend that he was alone in the darkness. He felt himself relaxing.

Then boats followed the water around a hill, and Hogwarts came into view. Harry had seen it before - from a great distance - but the moonlit view of the castle from the darkness of the lake tore a gasp of wonder from his lips. By the sound of it, he wasn't the only one. The spires of the castle roze to dizzying heights, as if to touch the stars, and the glow of candles blazed in each of the hundreds of windows.

A snow-white owl swooped over his boat, wings spread as wide as he was tall. Harry grinned, ignoring the startled cries of his fellow passengers as Hedwig skimmed along the surface of the lake before vanishing into the night.

The voyage came to an end a few minutes later, the boats spreading out and beaching themselves beneath the castle. The first years clambered out of the boats and followed Hagrid, like ducklings waddling blindly after their mother. They went up a narrow flight of stairs, and Harry tried not to wonder too closely how Hagrid had managed the trip. From there, they went through a a great door that dwarfed Hagrid, down a set of corridors, up another flight of stairs, through an empty classroom, and finally to their destination - another empty hallway.

Harry was thoroughly lost.

"Alrigh' now; settle down. Jes' be quiet and wait here fer Pr'fesser McGonnagal and she'll guide you through the Sorting. Ah've got some business ta attend to, but good luck!"

Of course, the moment Hagrid left the group erupted with chatter. Harry wondered briefly what a Sorting was.

"It's how they sort you into what House you go into," a girl from behind him said.

Harry turned to see her talking to Dean and Justin. Her brown hair sort of exploded out from under her hat in a way that made Harry feel better about his own untidy appearance, but she appeared to know what she was talking about.

"I read all about it in _Hogwarts, a History_," she continued. "There's some sort of magical device that sorts the first year class into their House, where they'll be for the rest of Hogwarts. The four Houses are - "

The lecture continued, but Harry (and everyone else) had lost interest. The train ride had given him more than enough time to learn about the four houses through osmosis. Gryffindor, well, everyone seemed to think he would go there, but Harry had never felt particularly brave. Ravenclaw sounded like it would be some sort of elite Wizarding chess-club type place full of people like that girl who was _still talking in that lecture voice_. He didn't think of himself as hard-working or social, so Hufflepuff wasn't a good fit either. As for Slytherin...he'd heard a lot about Slytherin, and none of it good.

Harry heard a high-pitched shriek come from the direction of the door. The growing chatter came to a halt. He was too short to see over the others, but could make out some sort of glowing, silvery blur.

"Honestly, it's like you've never seen a ghost before."

The crowd took a few steps back. Harry, confused, kept his place - and with fewer people in front of him, had a better view of the ghost. It was a man in a Shakespearian get-up. He wore a tunic that hung to his knees but was belted at the waist, a pair of leggings, and a short fur-lined cloak. At one time it had probably been elaborately colored, but was now just different shades of silver. The man himself had a neatly kept moustache (did ghosts have to shave?) beneath a bold nose that dominated an otherwise soft face. His hair was...thinning would be a nice word, Harry decided. Wait, did ghosts go bald? Or was he just balding when died?

"You'll get used to it. I did."

"Excuse me," came a familiar vaguely-patronizing voice from the crowd. "Are you Professor Binns?"

The ghost - the Professor? - took a step forward at the question. The movement looked _off_ to Harry, like the ghost was moving forwards slightly out of sync with his steps. "I am indeed. I have taught History of Magic at Hogwarts for the past 1400 years. It tends to make one uniquely qualified to discuss history."

"But Professor, wasn't Hogwarts founded in the 9th century AD?" the girl asked.

Smarmy. That was the word Harry had been looking for. It felt like every sentence this girl had spoken had been an effort to prove her intellectual superiority.

Professor Binns snorted, a tiny puff of spectral mist escaping his nose. "Just because the school was founded 1200 years ago doesn't mean that it's only been around for 1200 years. That's the problem with these last ten generations; no appreciation for non-chronological sequencing."

"Um...why is one of our teachers a ghost" asked Seamus.

"Well," said Professor Binns. "I was the History of Magic Professor in life, but my true passion was studying ghosts. Eventually I realized that the only way to truly learn about ghosts was to become one - so, in a fit of brilliance, I took my own life for a fresh perspective. Did great things for my research."

"My God," whispered Justin. "Really?"

"No," said Professor Binns. "Being a ghost didn't actually help my research."

"Wait, but - you really killed yourself?" Justin asked again.

Professor Binns covered his face with his palm. "Please tell me the lot of you aren't this gullible or it's going to be a very long year."

Several in the crowd snickered at this, though the brainy girl merely looked cross. Justin went from confusion to anger as it dawned on him that the professor had been messing with him.

Before anyone else could ask the ghost-Professor a question, another silvery figure drifted through the door, this one floating a good foot above the ground. The ghost was a thin man in frilly Victorian dress, with hair as curly as his goatee was straight and elaborate frills at his collar and cuffs. He looked more _earthy_ than Professor Binns. He had more color, instead of just being variations of silver.

"Ah, Professor!" said the newcomer. "Professor McGonnagal has sent me to retrieve you and our esteemed crop of First Years immediately. The Sorting is ready to begin!" He turned to the crowd of robed children. "And a Gryiffindor's luck to all of you," he said with a wink.

Professor Binns rolled his eyes. "Right then, through the door and into the Great Hall. Hurry along, best to find out you're not bright enough for Ravenclaw as quickly as you can. Yes my boy, I _do_ mean you."

Harry filed through the door with the rest of the First Year students, and on the other side was -

His mouth dried and his eyes widened.

It was the entire school - students, faculty, staff - and they were all staring at _him_. Well, staring at the First Years, but he was one of those.

The Great Hall itself was a massive, imposing piece of architecture that felt more suited to a conquering king than a school. The marble floors gleamed in the torchlight, and feudal banners of House colors adorned the pillars next to dining tables. The ceiling stretched on into the darkness - wait, were those _stars_ up there?

"Magicked to mimic the night sky - " he heard whats-her-name mutter to nobody in particular. Well. Maybe that was just how she dealt with stress. The tone still annoyed him, somehow, even if he'd wanted that answer.

To his left was a high table, and what Harry assumed were the Hogwarts faculty were seated there. Professor Binns ignored the table and followed his ghostly companion down towards the dining tables. The dining tables filled with hundreds of students. Looking at him.

He looked away, and his eyes seized on a stool spotlighted next to the faculty table. A battered wizard's hat had been placed on top of it.

The hat burst into song, and honestly, Harry was relieved that it wasn't doing anything _completely_ ridiculous. Try on a magic hat, get sent to a dining table. Easy. He was beyond questioning the logic of how the hat was going to do that. Maybe that was how Wizarding society worked? They just got tired of asking what the hell was going on and just ran with it?

A strict-looking female Professor stood up and began to call roll in alphabetical order by last name. Harry had time to learn that Seamus was a Gryffindor, Justin and Susan were Hufflepuffs, Draco (as predicted) a Slytherin, and that the brainy girl's name was Hermione and she was also headed to Gryffindor. That surprised him; she'd sounded like a shoe-in for Ravenclaw. Still, the Gryffindors accepted her with the same raucous cheer they'd given everyone else sent their way.

Then...

"Potter, Harry!"

A hush fell over the Great Hall. Now they were _definitely_ looking at him in particular. He felt his stomach clench, and hurried over to the Sorting Hat. Best to get this over as soon as possible and get away from all that scrutiny. The Sorting Hat, clearly sized for an adult, fell down past his eyes, blocking the view of the crowd.

He could still feel their stares, and shifted nervously on the stool. How long was this supposed to take?

A voice echoed in his thoughts. **Anxious to avoid the attention?**

_'Yes!'_ he thought back.

**Well, let's see what we've got to work with. Thirst for recognition...Slytherin could help you on the path to greatness. You've got the cunning for it, if you can overcome that fear.**

_'I just want to be left alone!'_

**No, you want The Boy Who Lived to be left alone. And you don't really seem like the type to fight a dragon for recognition, so Gryffindor isn't for you. Probably for the best; fighting dragons is mostly just a quick suicide.**

_'Uh, definitely not something for me.'_

**Any desire to know things just to know them? To soothe your soul with knowledge of an eldritch nature?**

_'Not...really?'_ He wasn't even sure what "eldritch" meant.

**Ravenclaws are all assholes anyway. Rowena tried to dissect me. How do you even dissect a hat?**

_'I don't know?'_ This conversation was getting more and more surreal. And it had started off as a telepathic conversation with a singing hat.

**See? Thirst for recognition, no desire to be particularly brave or clever. Perfect fit for Slytherin.**

_'Aren't you supposed to be unbiased or something?'_

**Never said I was in the song for a reason, bucko. And you're giving me a headache, so I really just want to get on with the rest of this Sorting before I can get back to some important Hat business.**

_'Is there a House for people who feel queasy?'_

**Oh, you mean Hufflepuff. Well, yeah, it's a House. Sort of a dumping ground for people who aren't important enough to go to the others, but still a House.**

_'I really don't want to be in Slytherin.'_

**Whatever. Your life, kid. Bravery, smarts, cunning...if you don't care for any of that stuff - **

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

**Seriously though, it's actually a nice place. Dorms are right next to the kitchens if you ever want a snack and the people are nice. You'll be fine.**

_'Thanks?'_ Harry thought, taking off the hat.

He blinked in the sudden glare of torchlight.

But more oppressive than the torchlight was the silence that gripped the hall.

At the Gryffindor table, two ginger boys that looked a lot like Ron were frozen halfway through a celebratory dance, like their guest of honor had turned out to be Hitler's ghost instead of the Queen. "We...didn't get Potter?" one of them asked.

It broke the spell, and the Hufflepuffs went _mad_. The roar of their cheer echoed off the walls, stirring their House banner with its force. Harry smiled weakly and marched down to a seat at his table, in the middle of that crowd of hundreds. He was welcomed with enthusiastic pats to the back, and Professor McGonnagal had to shout for order to be restored and the Sorting to continue. He was only too grateful for the distraction.

The rest of the Sorting was a blur to him, though he did manage to hold onto a class schedule handed to him by a prefect. The first year Hufflepuffs - all four of them - would be guided through their first week of classes, but it would still be good to know where he was going before he got there.

When the sorting wrapped up, a man with an elaborate white beard and half-moon spectacles at the faculty table stood.

"Shh, it's Dumbledore!" the Prefects whispered, hushing the table.

Dumbledore smiled out at the crowd. "A welcome start to the year. I'm very glad to see so many new faces at Hogwarts, and I'm sure you'll be equally glad once I stop yapping so you can eat."

The crowd chuckled at this, though Harry merely looked from side to side nervously. He was going to have to sit through a formal dinner? Oh God, he was going to be here for _hours_. Surrounded by all these _people._ He could already feel his heart straining against his ribs; he didn't want to be here for another minute.

"In addition to the regular school prohibitions - the Forbidden Forest is indeed forbidden, First Years are prohibited from performing Thaumaturgy, and the like - I am declaring the right-hand third floor corridor off limits on pain of death or expulsion, should you survive it. Some of the summer's experiments have proven to be rather more robust than anticipated."

Harry shivered at the announcement. What had Aunt Petunia told him? That he could go and get himself killed like his mother? And Professor Snape had mentioned the dangers of a magical education. Maybe this hadn't been the best decision.

"Aside from that, I have only the inspiring words of Godric Gryffindor for you all - 'I doesn't afraid of anything!'" With that, Dumbledore took his seat, and a feast appeared on the tables as if by magic.

Well, duh. Of course it was magic.

Harry was used to eating alone, and the cafeteria/buffet feel of his first dinner at Hogwarts was well outside of his comfort zone. He kept his hands well away from anything that he thought others would go for, and finished eating in less than half the time it took his year mates.

After an eternity of nervous shifting and waiting, the Hufflepuff prefect rounded up the First Years and led them out of the Great Hall. Harry could see the other Houses heading off in different directions, but didn't have the time to wonder where they were headed. Their guide took them up a flight of stairs, down a corridor, down a flight of stairs, turned a corner - until they were only about a hundred yards from the Great Hall in front of a stack of barrels.

"Sorry about the route; got to throw off the others a bit," their guide said, laughing.

Harry didn't really get the joke.

"Anyway, the way to open the dorm is to tap out the rhythm to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on this barrel. If you don't know the tune, you've had a terrible childhood and it goes like this - "

The prefect tapped out the beat on the indicated barrel, and the entire display disappeared into the floor, revealing the entranceway to a cavernous section of rooms. The ceilings were lower than in the hallways, and the common area was more dimly lit. Fires blazed away in three different hearths, with overstuffed sofas sprinkled throughout the area. It looked...cozy, if a bit too public for Harry.

Older students lounged about, and Harry saw several clustered around some sort of board game. The pieces were moving, but Harry couldn't fathom the rules.

An older girl sat in front of the smallest fireplace, looking somewhat out of place. Harry couldn't put his finger on it - ah. She had a "personal space" bubble that included a quarter of the common room, and the other Hufflepuffs studiously avoided looking in that direction as they walked in. It only drew his attention more - wait, that wasn't the fire reflecting off her hair; her hair was actually changing colors in time to the flames.

Maybe she'd had some sort of magical mishap already.

Harry was too tired to focus on it, and it was none of his business anyway. He collapsed into his bed the moment it was pointed out to him and tried to ignore the fact that he was sleeping in a room with Justin and two strangers. Three strangers, really, he didn't know Justin _that_ well.

Tired as he was, sleep was still long in coming.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** I hate the info dump and would really like help on getting rid of the damn thing.

**Disclaimer: **Cocaine is a hell of a drug.

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Chapter Four**

Harry saw a blinding flash of sickly green light and bolted upright, panicking as his arms tangled in the thick sheets. His lungs burned, and his throat felt like he'd swallowed acid. His breath came short, quick, and painful.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. It was just a dream. Just _the_ dream, the same one he'd had three nights in a row now. Must be something about the castle.

Abandoning any hope of going back to sleep, Harry tossed the covers aside. His face was coated in sweat and his skin felt hot. He needed a shower.

He tried to focus on the past few days instead of the past few nights. The castle, Harry had found, was some sort of bizarre shifting maze of passageways and rotating staircases - one hundred and forty two staircases, according to that Gryffindor girl. And that didn't even touch on the false doors, the roaming portraits, or the trick hallways. He'd nearly lost his breakfast on his first morning in the castle walking through one of those - a spiralling nightmare that somehow ended up with him being upside down and walking through a set of double doors to Transfiguration. The Prefect had said the hallway led somewhere else when it was straight, but hadn't mentioned how the hall changed back and forth.

The Transfiguration lesson hadn't been any more straightforward than the hallway. They'd been set to transforming matchsticks into pins, and everyone who'd failed to do so (everyone in the class) had been tasked with an essay on why the two objects were similar. "They're the same size," was as far as Harry's essay had gotten before he'd been distracted by more immediate concerns, like memorizing star charts for Astronomy.

He'd never really had any interest in constellations or horoscopes, but thankfully Astrology had nothing to do with Astronomy. Harry hadn't known the two were different, but memorizing the name and orbit of planets was straightforward enough. The first class had been a crowded affair atop the tallest tower in the castle in the middle of the night, with four Houses worth of students struggling over the best spot to see Mercury ascend. Thankfully the magical telescopes came with a Record function, so he hadn't had to try and take notes in the bitter cold. Honestly, despite being so crowded, it had been his favorite class so far. The "classroom" was cold and dark, and the other students were so focused on making their measurements that he might as well have been alone.

Still, he'd been more than close enough to realize that the other students, even those raised in magical families, were just as clueless as he was. They would occasionally know the name of a random constellation, or have heard that certain celestial conjunctions meant something, but by and large they were just as likely to give the wrong answer as he was. It was refreshing, and a little bit reassuring.

He'd gone into his first class the next day feeling encouraged, and Herbology hadn't done anything to change his mind. The class was taught by Professor Sprout, Hufflepuff's Head of House, and it had been the closest he'd come to relaxing since he got to Hogwarts. As First Years they weren't trusted with anything dangerous, and the first class had centered around the basics of gardening. It was all old knowledge to Harry - well, except for the bits on the mystic significance of planting at the full moon versus the new and the like. So far so good, and Professor Sprout hadn't assigned any homework at all.

His other classes - Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms - seemed convinced that they were the only classes he had to study for. He hated Defense. Professor Quirrell kept making bad jokes about how he didn't need the class, and the entire classroom was stuffed full of knicknacks and occult paraphernalia that creeped him out. Something in the room gave him a terrible headache, too - probably the incense Professor Quirrel kept burning to keep away "malevolent spirits." Wasn't Hogwarts supposed to have its own magic defenses against that sort of thing?

At least Professor Flitwick, the dwarfish man in charge of Charms and the head of Ravenclaw, was funny. The class spent as much time laughing at his antics and stories as they did waving wands and taking notes. So far he'd managed to move a feather a few inches with the levitating charm...or he'd gone a bit overboard with the wand waving. Either way, the feather had moved, hadn't it?

Thoughts on his first classes aside, he needed to finish cleaning up. Twenty minutes later he was showered and dressed for the day. The day that wouldn't start for another four hours. He looked around the darkened room - his yearmates had slept through his "morning routine," but probably wouldn't appreciate it if he lit a candle. To the common room, then. The fireplaces stayed lit until breakfast ended.

He grabbed his bookbag and crept down the stairs on light feet. The Hufflepuff common room was silent but for the crackling of logs in the hearth. As always, he had the room to himself at this hour - well, the older girl with the shifting hair was sleeping on "her" sofa, but that was normal. Apparently. Nobody else said anything about it, and Harry certainly had no interest in approaching her.

Harry plopped himself down in a chair at the opposite end of the room and pulled out _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble. He still didn't understand the difference between Thaumaturgy and Dark Arts and Wand Magic - Professor Quirrell had said it would be covered in History of Magic, and he hadn't covered the subject in any sort of detail. Unfortunately, today was his first day of History of Magic, and Professor Binns seemed like the type to mock ignorant students.

Besides, with his luck it wouldn't get covered in History of Magic and then he would have _no_ idea what was going on in the Introduction to Thaumaturgy this afternoon. He wasn't exactly sure why they were having that class, anyway. Weren't First Years not supposed to do Thaumaturgy, whatever it was?

He ended up rereading the chapter twice without making any progress, and threw the book down in disgust with twenty minutes left before breakfast. Perfect timing as far as he was concerned - students typically didn't start showing up to breakfast until half an hour after it started, so if he got there right at six, it would be empty.

The fact that the Hufflepuff common room was only a minute's walk away only made it easier. He spared a moment to feel sorry for the Ravenclaw students hiking all the way down from their tower, but only a moment.

Breakfast was the typically ridiculous affair that Harry imagined should be reserved for visiting heads of state. Piles of bacon shaped into pigs ran around the tables and dropped off strips onto his plate, chased by twenty-foot sausage anacondas. At least the bread and eggs weren't enchanted today, and Harry was able to eat them like a normal person.

He heard a fluttering of wings overhead and scooted to the side, giving Hedwig plenty of room to land on the bench next to him. The owl was much too big to land on _him_, and given how sharp her talons looked he didn't have much of an interest in trying. He buried his fingers in the soft feathers above Hedwig's eyes and gently scratched at the ridges. She shoved her head against his hand, her eyes lidded, clearly enjoying her morning pampering.

More owls swooped down from the rafters, bringing packages and newspapers for the handful of students here this early. Maybe he should subscribe to a newspaper; they looked like a good way to convince random passerby that he was too busy to talk to. Uncle Vernon had always held up his morning paper like a wall between himself and the world.

"Sorry, girl," Harry said to his owl. "They were a bit too fast for me today. Care to catch us some bacon?"

Hedwig screeched her approval and took flight. The resulting flapping of wings knocked his glasses to the ground, and by the time he'd gotten them back on the snowy owl was close behind the enchanted breakfast meats. He nibbled at his toast as he watched her pursuit, wondering why this was starting to feel normal.

Well, at least he didn't have to make the meal or clean up after it.

By the time he'd finished (with Hedwig still digging into the bacon-carcass), the main body of students had begun to swarm in, desperate to stuff themselves and have plenty of time to make it to their first class. Harry saw the pointed fingers out of the corner of his eyes, the hushed discussions about him barely audible over the general melee of Hogwarts's breakfast.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Over there, eating by himself."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

"Still can't believe he's in Hufflepuff."

You'd think they would have gotten used to it by now. And they _never_ stopped about him being a Puff. He'd never heard of any of the houses last week, and now he was a laughingstock for not being in the "right" one.

His ears burned and he grabbed his bookbag hurriedly, desperate to get out of the rapidly filling Great Hall. There were just too many people there - he couldn't see them all, couldn't help but imagine them sneaking up behind him like one of Dudley's gang.

No one stopped him on his way out.

===Page Break===

The trip to History of Magic was uneventful, thank God. He didn't have a single run-in with fifth-year Slytherins, get nausea from mind-altering hallways, or have a horrifying encounter with the creepy caretaker, Argus Filch. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, had given him the stink eye on his way out of the Great Hall, but she did that to everyone but Filch.

He'd already established his seat in the rearmost corner of the History of Magic classroom when the other students arrived. Ernie MacMillan, one of the other three boys in Harry's dorm, took his usual seat near the front of the classroom. Justin took the seat next to him, and the rest of the class packed in rather haphazardly. Susan ended up sitting in the seat in front of him, which Harry appreciated - it would be one more person between him and the professor's line of sight.

The history classroom felt deserted. It had clearly been built with classes of thirty in mind, and with just the eight Hufflepuff First-Years present there were more empty seats than filled ones. The twenty-foot vaulted ceilings only added to the feeling that they were in an abandoned tomb of a room.

Which, in Harry's limited experience, was unusual for Hogwarts. Typically a class would have had two houses attending - Transfiguration and Charms were joint classes with Ravenclaw and Astronomy was taught to all four houses at once. The only other single-House class he'd been to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, and it had been taught in a much smaller room.

It made sense once a Prefect explained it to him. Each class only had one professor, and with seven years of students to teach, most didn't have time to teach twenty-four classes a week.

Harry relaxed a bit. Fewer people meant fewer people to draw attention away from him, but more importantly it meant fewer people whose attention could be drawn to him in the first place.

The shuffling of paper and books gradually died down as everyone settled into their seats. After a minute, it was replaced by hushed conversation. Then by loud conversation, because the class had started five minutes ago and their teacher had not shown himself yet.

Harry shifted uneasily in his seat and fidgeted with his quill. Were they in the right room?

A voice from above cut through the chatter. "Nobody ever looks up any more."

Of course the entire class looked up, teeth clicking shut. The spectral-silver form of Professor Binns loomed over the class, one eyebrow arched in amusement as he stepped down from the chandelier. The movement looked off to Harry - the Professor was clearly moving at a speed that had nothing to do with how fast he walked through the air.

"I don't particularly care who's here and who isn't, so we can skip the roll call," said Professor Binns. "Instead...let's start with a bit of a quiz."

The class groaned, Harry included. He hadn't even opened _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshoot - he'd been hoping that this class would fill in the holes he needed to know for his _other_ classes. He knew he should have listened to Professor Snape about reading ahead.

"Raise your hand if you have received instruction on how to open your Magical Circuit without the use of a wand."

Harry blinked. He understood the individual words, but the combination might as well have been randomly generated for all the sense it made to him. Most of his classmates looked just as confused, except for two. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Susan Bones both raised their hands.

Professor Binns nodded. "About what I expected. You can put your hands down now; the rest of the questions are pointless." He leaned back against his desk, legs crossed and hands in his pockets. Just like everything else he'd seen the ghostly professor do, it looked...wrong...to Harry. Like the desk and the professor were objects that had been drawn separately and then cut and pasted together instead of two objects existing in the same space.

"I believe we've all met, but for the sake of formality, my name is Professor Cuthbert Binns. I've been a professor at Hogwarts for over 1,400 years. To put that in perspective, I was invited to be one of Hogwarts's first professors shortly after losing my family to the the first ravages of the Black Plague in Constantinople. Had I left for England sooner, I would have arrived during the reign of King Arthur. Instead I arrived to barbarians and upstart feudal lords infighting over the scraps of his kingdom - though I suppose it would have been easier for them if Merlin hadn't made off with Camelot and handed it off to four people who proceeded to turn it into a school for wizards and witches named Hogwarts."

He paused and looked out at the class, one eyebrow raised. Silence answered him.

Professor Binns coughed, then clarified, "The school, not the prospective wizards and witches, that is. The school was named Hogwarts. Is named Hogwarts. You're sitting in it. Right now. This is Camelot."

Again, silence. Harry only had the vaguest sort of idea who King Arthur was - the Dursleys hadn't approved of "legends" any more than they'd approved of fairy tales.

Professor Binns pouted. "Why does nobody else think that's as fascinating as I do? Well, I suppose that's why I'm the one teaching the class. And I'll need my TA for the rest of this. Peeves!"

The last word was shouted, and echoed through the arches of the ceiling. Once the last echo had faded, a ghost-white head popped out of the chandelier. The spectre's face was split by a grin that reached literally from ear to ear and its pointy nose seemed far too large for its head.

"Can't you do anything by yourself, old man?" it asked, tone mocking.

The ghostly professor shrugged. "Am I dragging you away from pressing poltergeist business? Did the dungeon snakes and the belfry bats need harassment? I thought your only duty at this hour was to obey your Master," said Professor Binns. He pointed at the blackboard. "You can make yourself useful or you can make yourself scarce, Peeves."

Peeves rolled his eyes - rolled his entire head, really, three times - but floated down from the chandelier and picked up a piece of chalk nonetheless. "You're no fun, you know that?"

"I had fun once. It was awful," said Binns.

Peeves began to shout a comeback, but the professor ignored his assistant and turned back to the class. Behind him, the poltergeist blew a raspberry before beginning to draw on the chalkboard.

"Right then," said Professor Binns. "We'll begin your first History of Magic class with a brief history of magic. Take notes if you want; if you forget anything you can ask my assistant, Peeves, all about it later. Mind, he might not tell you the right answers, but feel free to ask."

Harry wet his quill and prepared to take long, thorough notes.

"Now, I realize that History of Magic isn't the most exciting subject in the world. And in the words of Professor Snape, there will be no 'foolish wand waving' in my classroom. I don't expect you to gain the personal appreciation for the history that I have...lived through, for lack of a better word." Professor Binns smiled at his own joke, and the class gave a nervous laugh. Was it okay to laugh at the ghost for being dead?

"To explain Magic, capital M, I first have to explain Thaumaturgy. Thaumaturgy is a Greek word meaning to 'work miracles,' and was an ancient art used to recreate divine mysteries through the properties of equivalent exchange and the conversion of a Magus's internal Prana to enact an external effect. Clear as mud?"

Harry glared at his notes. So far he had three new vocabulary words and two terms that needed explanations, which accounted for just about every word he'd written. Great.

"Now, the diagram on the board should be of some help - Peeves!"

Harry looked up at the board and couldn't help but snicker along with the rest of the class. Peeves had drawn an elaborate mural of someone (Professor Binns, most likely) summoning a noble soul from its beloved afterlife to slave away at a chalkboard. At least the poltergeist had some artistic talent.

"Oh, you were wanting the prana creation chart?" Peeves asked innocently.

"Yes, I was wanting the prana creation chart," Binns said through gritted teeth. Could ghosts even grit their teeth? How did that work, really?

The class went on in a similar vein for the next hour. By the end of it Harry had a patchwork mess of notes that looked like a toddler had tried to copy the Necronomicon, but at least he knew the basic meaning of all the words on the page now.

For Thaumaturgy, a mage (an individual who had "Magic Circuits") could channel "prana" in the form of either their internal energy (Od) or the natural energy of the world (Mana) to create any effect that was physically possible - no matter how hard one tried, one couldn't do something like restore true life to the dead. Something like that would be Sorcery, which was magic that was impossible to replicate through mundane means. There were various other parts - thaumaturgical systems engraved on the bones on the world, self-hypnosis, and elements - that would be covered "next year."

"Now," said Professor Binns. "The downside to Thaumaturgy was that it was incredibly dangerous. The slightest misstep would kill the magus, and they lived by the creed, 'To be a magus is to walk with death.' Even worse, Thaumaturgy recreated specific miracles - so if you and a friend used the same spell to make a fireball, each one of you would only make half of a fireball. So mages were very secretive, obsessed with their craft, and it tended to bring out the worst in people."

Professor Binns paused for a minute, eyes unfocused. Harry had the feeling that "the worst in people" wasn't something the professor would explain in detail to people Harry's age. Then the moment ended, and the professor finished his lecture.

"But fortunately," said Binns, "Approximately 1500 years ago the first Wizard - whose name has been lost to time - carved a new system of Magic upon the bones of the world, and Wand Magic was born. The new system did all of the heavy lifting without risking a mage's Circuits, spells didn't become weaker as they were shared, and the spells it supported were generally much more powerful. Hogwarts was founded as the first school of Wand Magic, and over the centuries wizards and witches largely replaced magi. You don't need to know the dates; the order of events for anything more than a thousand years ago is more trouble than it's worth."

Harry finished scribbling his notes before setting down his quill. His hand ached.

He saw a hand go up in front of him.

"Yes, Ms. Bones?" asked Professor Binns.

"But...there are still magi. Lots of witches and wizards still use Thaumaturgy," she said. "My aunt says they use it all the time at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Professor Binns nodded. "True. Thaumaturgy is more...flexible than Wand Magic, and is much more scientific. Given enough time, a magus can create a spell to serve a specific purpose by logically expanding on his previous studies. Wand Magic is more arbitrary. If you want to accomplish an effect, you need to know a specific incantation and wand movement. It's hard to guess what the incantation or wand movement might be for a certain effect, and the spell you want might simply not exist. As a result, many families still practice Thaumaturgy as a teaching method, or research tool, to create magical items, or to establish Bounded Fields for safety and security. However, the most common use of Thaumaturgy in the modern era is the Dark Arts, which your aunt deals with regularly."

Susan winced and looked away, but the ghostly professor continued his lecture regardless.

"Thaumaturgy can be useful, but it's very costly in terms of time and energy - it's bound by equivalent exchange, which Wand Magic, for all practical purposes, is not. There have always been and will always be those who are lured by the potential power of it but who aren't willing to pay the price themselves. Forcing the cost of your mysteries onto others is the foundation of all Dark Arts. The last Dark Lord was particularly adept at using blood sacrifices to augment his spells. He preferred it if his followers - mostly purebloods, who had kept the traditions and their Circuits alive through generations - could do the same. Security fields crafted through Wand Magic can't detect conventional Thaumaturgy, and for ten years the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters pressed that advantage to the limit. They slaughtered every witch and wizard they could reach in the name of returning magic to its Thaumaturgical roots and its 'true' purpose."

The Professor turned his gaze towards Harry, and the rest of the class turned as well.

Harry swallowed nervously at the sudden attention.

"Of course," said Professor Binns, "We all know how that chapter of history ended."

===Page Break===

_'__Is there a single class that won't bring up_ me _as a magical marvel every time?'_ Harry wondered to himself at the end of class. And now that he knew Thaumaturgy was closely tied to the Dark Arts, he was almost positive it would get brought up again in his afternoon class.

He hated the attention. It made him feel like an animal at the zoo, ooh'd and aah'd over by crowds that never stopped tapping on the glass. Even now he could _feel_ the sideways glances from the other Hufflepuff First Years, the pressure of their stares on him like a great weight. He felt sweat break out on his forehead, felt his skin flush with heat, felt his hands start to tremble.

Harry closed his eyes and took a slow, shaky breath. They weren't going to corner him after class. They weren't looking for signs of weakness. This wasn't Privet Drive.

He took his time packing up his things and made to leave the classroom a few minutes after everyone else.

"Mr. Potter," said Professor Binns.

Harry blinked in surprise and looked up. He'd honestly forgotten the professor was in the room.

"You are far from the first student I've had who ended up in the books I teach. I can see you care little for it, but try not to focus on what the other students think of your reputation - Merlin certainly didn't, and he turned out alright."

"Um," Harry answered intelligently. "I'm not - "

"Don't worry about it," Professor Binns said, cutting him off. "Now, off with you. I've got a fifth year Slytherin class in a few minutes, and the snakes are terrible at it. I need some time to prepare myself for disappointment." With that, the ghost professor spread his arms and let himself fall over backwards - through the desk, then the floor.

Show-off.

Harry grabbed his bag and hurried out of the classroom. He looked over his shoulder as he strode down the hall. Had he been that easy to read? He didn't want to draw any more attention to hims-

"Oof," he said, and fell to the floor, his glasses clattering down next to him. He'd run into something solid, not looking where he was going.

"Oy, watch where you're going, shrimp!" shouted the older boy he'd run into.

So he'd run into some_one_. An older, upset student by the sound of it. He hunched his shoulders and looked down. "Sorry, I wasn't - "

Harry felt a hand seize his collar and yank him to his feet. He looked up, hands instinctively moving to protect his face. He saw a teenaged boy in school robes wearing a loosely knotted green-and-silver tie. A cheerless grin split the boys face, crooked teeth beady eyes giving him a primitive, brutal look.

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. Maybe Hogwarts _wasn't_ so different from Privet Drive after all.

"Well well well," said his captor. "If it isn't Harry Potter. I'm Marcus Flint, and I've wanted to talk to you for a long time, kid. Do you know how absurd you are? I've heard about the Boy Who Lived my whole life, but you're just a baby Puff. I've got family in Azkaban because of you. The war didn't do us Flints any favors."

Harry squirmed and reached for the hand on his collar - wait, was his name Flint? "I don't - I have no idea - " he sputtered.

Flint shook him roughly. "And here you are wandering all alone. Isn't that - oy, ook me in the eyes when I'm talking to you, Potter!"

Harry looked up, fear in his eyes, and saw gloating triumph in Flint's. The hallway faded away, and his field of view began to shrink down to Flint's eyes and the faint drone of words just outside of conscious hearing -

Harry saw a familiar spectral silver hand emerge from Flint's eyes, and the older boy collapsed to the ground, clutching at his head and shouting in pain. Harry staggered backwards before falling flat on his butt.

Professor Binns stood over the Slytherin boy, arms crossed. "Mr. Flint, I had low expectations of you this year but not _this_low."

Flint's only response was to moan piteously from the ground, hands still clamped on his eyes, his entire body convulsing.

"Twenty points from Slytherin, and detention until November. You can spend them with Peeves. Do you understand?"

"Bloody ghost," Flint mumbled from the ground. "So damn _cold_..."

Binns nodded, then turned to Harry. "Are you alright? Did he tell you to do anything?"

Harry shook his head. "No. Uh, I don't think so, anyway. Why?"

The professor gestured down at the prone Slytherin. "Because he was trying to hypnotize you. It's the most basic technique of Thaumaturgy, and a true coward's tactic. It's completely useless against anyone with even the most basic of instruction - even if he's gotten tutoring from true master like Professor Snape."

Binns looked up at Harry. "Now, you'd best hurry along before you miss lunch. Don't worry about Flint here - I'll see about rescheduling his class. And guess who gets to explain to his yearmates about why their new schedule involves a midnight History class?" This last was directed at Flint, who didn't look like he was in any position to explain anything to anyone.

Harry fumbled around on the floor and snagged his glasses. The hallways came into focus, and he saw Peeves peeking his head through the wall.

Teachers had rarely been of any use back at Privet Drive, but then, his teachers had never stabbed his bullies in the brain with ghost-hands. Looking down at Flint and seeing his face twisted with pain and fury, Harry didn't exactly feel filled with confidence.

But he certainly wasn't going to be any safer hanging out here, so he dashed off towards the Great Hall without a backwards glance.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** All wizards can be magi, but not all magi can be wizards.

**Disclaimer:** These acknowledgments that I know the fictional setting I'm working in are copyrighted actually don't do anything except prove that I know I'm committing copyright infringement. Didn't I use this one already?

**Harry Potter and the Pursuit of Happiness: Chapter Five**

The sound of Harry's hasty footsteps echoed off the stone walls. He ignored the curious looks of the portraits in favor of getting away from the History of Magic classroom as fast as possible.

He wouldn't soon forget the name of Marcus Flint.

However, he would soon forget where the hell he was.

Harry looked around. This hallway didn't look familiar. Had he taken a passage that let somewhere else on Thursdays? One of the Hufflepuff prefects had warned him about those, but he'd thought they were all on the fifth floor. Wait, was he on the fifth floor?

The only way to be sure would be to look out a window, but there weren't any nearby.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as anxiety set in. There were, apparently, students who hated him for something he hadn't really done just as much as most students idolized him. Harry didn't think he had good odds of a friendly ghost saving him again.

"You're a long way from home, young Badger," came a voice from behind him.

Harry jumped in fright, whirling around while fumbling for his wand. He didn't know what he was going to do with it, but at least - then he caught sight of his ambusher, and relaxed, arms falling back to his sides.

It was an overweight, short, pearly-white ghost holding a tankard. The ghost's short-cut blonde hair framed a smiling, pudgy face. A ghost he'd met before: The Fat Friar, who'd been a Hufflepuff almost a thousand years ago. He'd seen the ghost in the Hufflepuff common room before, sharing stories about his time at Hogwarts.

"You scared me, Friar," said Harry. "And I'm sort of lost. I just left History of Magic a few minutes ago."

The ghost scratched at the back of his head sheepishly. "Apologies; I did not mean to frighten you. Sometimes I forget how quiet we ghosts are." He paused to take a sip from from his tankard. "But you say you just left the classroom of Professor Binns?"

"Um, yeah," Harry answered.

"Strange," said the ghost. "You're almost to the Ravenclaw tower."

Harry blinked. The Ravenclaw tower was on the opposite end of the school from Binns's classroom. "But - nevermind. Can you show me to the Great Hall? I've never actually been to the Ravenclaw tower." He paused. "Why are _you_ near the Ravenclaw tower?"

The Friar's ghostly cheeks flushed a brighter white. "Visiting an old friend, as it were. But alas, she will have to wait. I would never abandon one of my badgers in their hour of need! Follow me," said the Fat Friar as he turned and floated down the hall.

Harry hurried after the ghost. He looked around, trying to memorize the features of the area that probably didn't shift - like portrait frames, chandeliers, and windows. He didn't see any students, which wasn't that unusual. The castle was enormous - seven stories tall plus the dungeons, and that didn't even touch the grounds. There were probably two unused rooms for every one of the castle's 300 students.

It felt somewhat foreboding when he thought about it like that.

He turned to the Friar, trying to think of something to say to fill the oppressive silence of the hall. "So...how many ghosts are there in Hogwarts?" he asked.

"At last count there were twenty-two of us," answered the Friar. "Though some spirits do come and go."

"Where do they go to?" asked Harry.

The portly ghost paused. "Well, that's a rather personal question, and it would be rude of me to speak on behalf of others."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't - "

"It's quite alright, my boy," answered the Friar. "It's natural to be curious at your age, especially about ghosts! I imagine you had never seen one before coming to my illustrious alma mater?"

Harry wasn't quite sure what an alma mater was, but he felt confident the Friar was referring to Hogwarts. "No. It's...strange, hearing about stuff from hundreds and hundreds of years ago from people who were actually _there_. Like, Professor Binns was talking about the fall of the Roman Empire. I think the fall of the _British_ Empire was forever ago, so it's just...weird," he said.

The Friar nodded. "Professor Binns is the oldest ghost in Hogwarts. We're fortunate to have him - it's one of the unique features of Hogwarts. Most ghosts are just fragments of their living selves, but there is ancient sorcery in the bones of the castle. I've certainly been blessed beyond compare to have the opportunity to mentor more than fifty generations of young Hufflepuffs."

For the first time, Harry took a long, close look at the Fat Friar. He could make out a faint smile on the ghost's face, even from behind. The Friar floated through the halls with confidence Harry envied, distinct and separate from the physical realm of the castle. It seemed much more natural than Professor Binns's movements - the ghostly teacher always seemed like he was still trying to interact with the mortal world.

"Here we are, young badger!" exclaimed the Friar.

Harry shook his head, focusing back on his surroundings. Hey, he recognized those pillars! The next stairway would leave him on the ground floor just down the hall from the Hufflepuff common room and the Great Hall.

"Thank you, Friar! " Harry said.

The Friar's smile broadened. "You are quite welcome. Anything for a scion of my old House. Now, if you will excuse me, I must depart. I fear I've left the Grey Lady waiting."

Harry said his farewells and watched the ghost float through the ceiling. That was probably a really convenient way to not get tricked by the castle's magical hallways and stairs.

His stomach rumbled, and he hurried down the stairs. He was much too late to eat before anyone else had arrived, but maybe he was _so_ late the rest of the school would have already left?

===Page Break===

Nearly every seat in the Great Hall was filled, of course.

Harry kept his eyes firmly focused on nothing as he made his way to the Hufflepuff table. He swiped a pair of biscuits, an apple, and a piece of ham without stopping, then immediately headed for the doors. The ham would stain the inside of his pocket, but he needed it. No one took notice of his hit and run approach to lunch, and he escaped the Great Hall without further incident.

Five flights of stairs later, he opened the door to Hogwarts's eyrie. A series of sleepy hoots answered his arrival. A moment later, an enormous snow-white owl waddled up to him, looking completely undignified. Harry couldn't help but snicker at how ridiculous Hedwig looked.

The owl ignored his plebeian opinion of her appearance and fixed him with a predator's gaze.

Harry rolled his eyes as he fished the piece of ham out of his pocket. "No, I didn't forget about you, you great beggar," he said.

He sat down and pulled out the rest of his food. Now this was his idea of a peaceful lunch - sharing pieces of ham with Hedwig, a couple biscuits for himself, and no one else around. Zen.

The meal didn't last long, even though Hedwig had nibbled at the ham more than eaten it. She was probably still full from taking down the animated bacon that morning. The snowy owl certainly seemed to be one step short of a food-induced coma, her eyes heavily lidded as she leaned against him. He idly scratched at the back of her head, and was rewarded with an encouraging headbutt.

"Lucky bird," he whispered. "All you have to do is laze about and get fat; it's not like I have anyone I want to write to. _I_have to go to classes. Do you know how much homework I'm ignoring right now?"

Judging by the way Hedwig simply burrowed further into his side, he doubted it.

"I should give you letters for China, you lazy beast," he said.

Hedwig stirred herself awake enough to give him a baleful look.

Harry laughed. "I'm joking. Though I probably will get a subscription to the Prophet at some point. Seems like a good thing to have," he said. "And I bet you could use the exercise. If all you ever do is flap after enchanted bacon and sleep then you're going to get too fat to fly."

By the contented sound Hedwig made in her throat, Harry assumed she had no problems with being fat and lazy.

"Come on girl, you know you'd miss flying. It's - it's flying! People've wanted to fly for so long that they put up with airline food to do it, and you can do it whenever." He'd never flown before, but airline food was notoriously awful. "And next week I can join you. They're doing an Introduction to Flying class - I wish it was this week, but I've got Introduction to Thaumaturgy instead."

Hedwig was beyond listening to his ramblings, and had truly fallen asleep. That or she _really_ just wanted him to shut up.

Harry chuckled at the thought and stood, careful not to let Hedwig fall. He picked her up and set her down in a nearby alcove designed to contain sleepy birds. He patted her on the head.

"Alright girl, I've got to head out or I'll be late. See you in the morning, eh?"

Hedwig responded with a sleepy hoot. Harry grinned to himself as he left, his good mood lasting all the way to the Hogwarts grounds.

The Introduction to Thaumaturgy class was supposed to meet at a grassy knoll overlooking the lake, and he found that with little difficulty. However, he didn't recall hearing that the First Years from _every house_ would be there. Or that the class had started at 12:55 instead of 1:00.

Thirty pairs of eyes looked upon the late arrival with varying degrees of disdain and exasperation.

"Well now that we're all finally here…" said a familiar voice. One universally feared by the student body of Hogwarts.

Harry's jaw dropped an inch.

He also didn't recall hearing that the class would be taught by the caretaker, Argus Filch.

===Page Break===

The caretaker was universally feared by the student body. The man himself looked intimidating, with his straggly reddish-brown hair and ill-kempt beard giving him a sort of "deranged hobo" look. His cat, Mrs. Norris, was a red-eyed tabby who looked just as well-maintained as her master. Harry could see the cat looking up at him disdainfully from behind Filch's legs.

But Filch wasted no further time before introducing himself. "My name is Argus Filch, and I will be your instructor for this class. I did not go to any fancy school or earn an advanced stick-waving diploma, so I am _not_ a Professor. You will all refer to me as sir. Got it?"

A chorus of mumbled yeahs, yesses, and got it's answered him.

Filch dug into his ear with his pinky finger and twisted it, before leaning forwards and cupping his wax-stained hand around his ear. "Yes what?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," the group answered, voices low and sulky.

Filch clapped his hands together enthusiastically, beaming down at them. "That's the spirit. Now, as for the class. I'd like to remind you lot that, outside of my personal supervision, none of you are supposed to do even the teeniest bit of Thaumaturgy. But I honestly don't care. To be a magus is to walk with death, and by the look of you lot Darwin is long overdue for a culling."

Harry had no idea who Darwin was, but nodded along with everybody else so he didn't look like an idiot.

"Today's class is the simplest exercise of Thaumaturgy: channeling Prana through an activated Circuit. If you don't know what those are, then you should stay awake in your other classes. Now, pull out your wands - hurry up, I don't have all day."

Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket, and watched as the rest of the class followed suit. Several of them - mostly in Slytherin - appeared to have engraved holsters for their wands. He thought they looked a bit silly. Nobody replicated Professor Snape's trick of having the wand spontaneously appear in their hand, not even Filch, which somewhat disappointed him. He wanted to know how to do that.

Also, where _was_ Filch's wand? Harry hadn't seen the man - the Professor, he supposed - pull it out.

"Took you lot long enough," Filch grumbled. "Now, this is the easy bit that you lot will never appreciate enough. _Real_ magi don't have the shortcuts you Wizarding folk have. Just focus on the warmth in the wand, flowing through your arm, and down your spine. That's the wand tapping into your Circuits, and is the same thing you'll feel when you're doing this properly. Well. It'll be a bit more _intense_, but never you mind. We haven't had a fatality or permanent injury in this class in more than a year. Now, wands away."

Harry stowed his wand, and then the full meaning of what he'd just heard settled in. Wait, there'd been _deaths_ in this class? Surely the caretaker was exaggerating. He seemed the type.

Right?

"Now, the hard part," said Filch. "Take a seat - watching you fall over is funny but not particularly useful."

Harry sat in the grass, legs crossed. The class took longer to follow this directive - and he could hear more and more hushed whispers as time went on. He tried to focus on Filch, and not the whispers or the way Mrs. Norris was prowling between the students.

"I want you to close your eyes, look inside yourself, and try to recreate that feeling. Your Circuits are part of you, and activating them should require nothing more than an effort of will."

"This is stupid," muttered a boy next to Harry.

Harry glanced at the boy and recognized Draco Malfoy from the train. He hadn't seen the boy since then, though he hadn't made any particular effort to that effect. Harry had just sort of avoided most things that made him nervous, like...people. He looked nervously towards Filch, but the caretaker didn't seem to have noticed.

"Now," continued Filch. "Doing this the right way is important. You're trying to activate something that is already there,_not_ make something out of nothing. Had a wee Ravenclaw Firstie do that awhile back trying to do this on his own - turned every nerve in his spine into a Circuit. Set himself on fire and woke the whole castle screaming while he fell from the tower. Took me _days_ to get all the ashes out of the cobblestones. Which, incidentally, is why we have this class now. Gives me a chance to get to the ashes before they set."

Draco said something underneath his breath that sounded like, "Idiot deserved it."

Harry didn't really think anyone deserved to light themselves on fire and fall from a tower except maybe his uncle. He scooted a few inches away from Draco - that story had been _morbid_, and the complete lack of empathy creeped him out. He closed his eyes and set his attention inward.

Now what?

"If you're struggling, try to associate the feeling with a mental image of something changing. I've heard of people who picture striking a match, firing a pistol, a guillotine dropping - any sort of sudden change."

The death imagery was decidedly unhelpful. Harry thought for a moment, and eventually settled on flipping a light switch.

Picturing it accomplished absolutely nothing.

Well. Shit. Maybe something more cheerful?

He focused on a recent memory from that morning: Hedwig, swooping in on her kill. The snowy owl hadn't cried out in triumph as her talons sank into the animated bacon, but there had been something intensely comical about her transition from "hunting predator" to "bird covered in pork bits."

Still nothing.

He cast about for another image to try, but his concentration was interrupted by screaming. Harry's eyes snapped open and he turned to see what the hell was going on, the rest of the First Years following suit.

A short, overweight Gryffindor boy had collapsed and curled into the fetal position as he screamed.

"Lesson one!" shouted Filch over the Gryffindor. "Prana is energy, and energy is heat! If you channel too much, your core temperature skyrockets until you burn yourself alive. Thaumaturgy beyond your ability will kill you."

Harry's mouth dropped. That boy was, was - dying? What the actual _hell_ was wrong with this school?

"Lesson two," shouted Filch. He reached down and grabbed the Gryffindor boy by the collar. Harry saw a faint glow surround the caretaker's hands and biceps. "It is very difficult to channel prana in running water."

Then the caretaker lifted the Gryffindor off the ground and hurled him twenty feet into the lake. The boy tumbled as he fell and hit the water with a resounding splash, his screams ending abruptly.

Harry heard splashing and confusion. The boy in the lake sputtered, "Trevor!"

The students hustled over to the lip of the hill overlooking the lake. The Gryffindor boy was standing shakily in about three feet of water, his hair stuck to his forehead. He was breathing heavily, but seemed otherwise alright.

"Oi! You there, lazing about in the lake!" shouted Filch.

The boy looked up at Filch like he was a madman. The other students followed suit.

"Good work!" the caretaker continued. "You were the first to activate your Circuit. Could use some work on deactivating, but at least you're enthusiastic with your screw-ups." He turned to look at the rest of the First Years. "Well? What are the rest of you layabouts doing? Class isn't over."

This was met with a certain amount of _are you mad_ by the First Years, which Filch did not deny.

"I'm a bit touched," said Filch, "But you lot are bloody stupid. The only way you leave this hill is after you've activated a Circuit. Can't have you faffing about trying to learn on your own."

"But we could _die_," shouted Dean.

Filch put his fists on his hips and spat on the ground. "Tch. I'm gonna share a story with you then, and so you know I mean it, it's a story by a damned _English_. A man hands his young daughter a sword, and she runs off to play. A woman shouts, 'It's not safe!' But the man answers, 'It's a sword. It's not supposed to be safe.' An old man cries out, 'She's only a child!' The father says, 'It's educational.'" The old man asks, 'What if she cuts herself?' And the father answers, 'Then that will be an important lesson.'"

Filch paused and cleared his throat, surveying his audience. "I don't care if you want to bury your fool heads in the sand. Thaumaturgy, like the sword, will still be there whether or not you want to hold it. And the day will come, wee Firsties, when you want to wield it. I don't really care if you cut yourselves open when you do - but I damn well don't want to hear Dumbledore whining about it to me afterwards. Now back to work!"

The students sat back down with muttered protests. Harry heard Malfoy's clearest of all, "Shouldn't be stuck here with this half-wit because other people are stupid…"

"Mr. Malfoy," said Filch, voice cutting across the assembled complaints like the Reaper's scythe through a cancer ward. "Three times you've mocked me or my class now. I'll see you in detention for the next week. You can clean the hall outside my workshop - magic never gets the job done half as well as hard labor."

Malfoy shot to his feet, cheeks flushed. Harry saw the blond boy's eyes shut, and then saw a faint glow surround the Slytherin. It dissipated when Draco opened his eyes to glare at the caretaker. "I don't need this stupid class! My family have been master magi for more than a thousand years and I will not sit through this waste of my time!"

Filch laughed, a deep, belly laugh, his eyes squeezing shut with mirth. "Oh, sure enough then, boyo. Your German ancestors lost the only thing that gave them any right to call themselves Masters of Thaumaturgy before Charlemagne took the throne, but clearly your line has retained enough 'excellence' to master my simple class. You can run along then, since you have nothing to learn here. I'll see you at 8 o'clock for the next _two_ weeks, and see if your family made you a master of mops, too."

Draco didn't even bother with a comeback; he just squared his shoulders and stalked off towards the castle. He didn't look back.

"Now, the rest of you lot - even the ones who know what you're doing - back to work! Nobody leaves until they get it right."

Harry swallowed nervously. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to have anything to do with something that could kill him as easy as breathing.

That wasn't at all what he wanted. More than anything else, more than learning magic, more than escaping the Dursleys, he wanted to _not die_. He clenched his eyes shut against tears, against the hysterical fear in his chest. His hand fisted in the grass, and he felt the blades scratch against his hand as he tried to anchor himself to the ground.

Harry felt his cheeks flush, felt his balance fade and clutched at the ground harder.

He didn't want to die.

He'd suffered so much. He'd hidden, been afraid, been beaten, neglected, and lived a truly wretched existence, but he had_lived_. Panicked sweat dripped off his face.

He didn't want to die.

A light erupted in his mind, a horrifying, sickly green burst of color. It had haunted his every night at Hogwarts, had been his constant waking fear.

Except this time the light built in his mind, and it burned, radiating from his chest like the sun, the pain so intense it blinded him. He let out a panicked shout, his breath like fire in his mouth.

_'__I don't want to die!'_ he thought.

The light vanished, and he felt the heat in his chest diminish slowly. After what felt like an hour, he managed to draw a shaky breath. The afternoon air felt refreshingly cold, and he heaved in greedy lungfuls of air.

A hand slapped him on the back, jerking him to full consciousness. Harry coughed and looked up, eyes half focused.

Filch scowled down at him. "Better than the last one at least. Now get; I've got the rest of this lazy gaggle to deal with."

Harry swallowed and nodded. His knees were unsteady as he rose, but after the first few steps his balance came back to him. He made his way carefully back towards the castle, ignoring the shouts and splash noises from behind him.

He hadn't died.

He'd come close. Harry had felt the horrible pain of something in his body overflowing, burning him from the inside out. But he hadn't died.

Harry enjoyed that feeling.


End file.
